1 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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IJ\T     P  RE  S  S 

21    IK  tm    Jj'otjel 

B r   THE   AUTHOR   OF   THIS   VOLUME 

ENTITLED 

" TOGETHE  R " 

Price    $1.35 


NEPENTHE 


BY   THE    AUTHOR    OP    "  OLIE." 


"  We  get  no  good 

By  being  ungenerous,  'Even  to  a  book, 
And  calculating  profits — so  much  help 
By  so  much  reading.    It  is  rather  when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves,  and  plunge 
Soul-forward,  headlong,  into  a  book's  profound, 
Impassioned  for  its  beauty  and  salt  of  truth. — 
'Tis  then  we  get  the  right  good  from  a  book." 

BROWNINO. 


CARLETOJV,    PUBLISHER,    413   BROADWAY. 
M  DCCC  LXIV. 


Entered ,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1864, 

Br     GEO.W.      CARLETON, 
In  the  Clerk's  Offlee  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TO 

CLAUDIUS   B.    PEASE, 

WHOSE    KINDNESS    SOOTHED,    WHOSE    CONSTANCY    CHEERED, 
WHOSE     DEVOTION     SUSTAINED, 

TILL    ITS     LATEST    HOUR, 

THE     LIFE     OF     OUR     GENTLE     ANNIE, 

WATCHING    80    TENDERLY    THROUGH    THE    NIGHT    OF    ANGUISH, 

TILL    ITS    RADIANT    DAWX, 

THIS   BOOK 
3s  Sffttiionattlj!  an&  (GtratrfuIIj  ScMcattfr. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I. — Mr.  Douglass  finds  a  document  not  in  his  line * 

II.— Prudence  Potter's  Discoveries— The  Doctor's  Comments 14 

III— Mr.  Trap  Holds  Forth  and  comes  to  a  Climax 24 

IV. — Mr.  Stuart's  Affairs  suddenly  close  up 28 

V.— Mrs.  John  Pridefit'8  Murmurs,  Perambulations,  Charities 35 

VI.— Mrs.  John  Pridefit  in  the  Dark 46 

VII. — Mrs.  Pridefit 's  Indignation  and  Consternation 51 

VIII. — Mrs.  Pridefit  takes  a  Course  consistent  with  Personal  Conve 
nience  and  Pecuniary  Liabilities 55 

IX.— A  Chapter  with  Some  Preaching  in  it 85 

X.— Dr.  Wendon's  Self-Denial 78 

XI.— The  Midnight  Visitor 83 

XII— Dr.  Wendon's  Dream 87 

XIII.— Excitement  in  a  Parlor  Up  Town 3« 

XIV The  Wendons  talk  about  the  Opera 109 

XV.— Impulses— The  Arrest 112 

XVI.— Fifth  House  in  the  block  For  Sale— Inquire  of  John  Trap  ....  122 

XVII.— The  Mountain  Bide 131 

XVIII.— Carleyn  at  Work 147 

XIX.— The  Convenient  Crack— Dr.  Bachune's  Wisdom— Orthodoxy 

—White  Cravats  and  Puritans 158 

XX.— Carleyn's  Tiger  in  a  Trap *.. in 

XXI.— Nepenthe  on  Exhibition 181 

XXII— Madame  Future 189 

XXIII. — Carleyn's  Journal 191 

XXIV— A  bit  of  Philosophy  about  Husbands 195 


Viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAQB 

XXV.— Nepenthe  Writes -00 

XX VI.— Carleyn's  Conceit 204 

XXVII.— Love,  Jealousy  and  Rivalry 209 

XX  VIII.— Nepenthe  refuses  a  Self  Made  Man  and  Worthy  Husband....  220 

XXIX.— The  Music  Book  Open  at  the  Wrong  Place 239 

XXX.— Mr.  Nicholson  resolves  to  be  Intellectual    247 

XXXI.— Disclosures 252 

XXXII.— Darkness  Without— Light  Within 258 

XXXIII.— Prudence  Potter's  New  Discoveries 262 

XXXIV— The  New  Private  in  Company  G 267 

XXXV.— Among  the  Missing 270 

XXX  VI.— Baconian  Philosophy  Illustrated  in  a  Literal  Way 276 

XXXVII.— Carleyn's  Ideal 284 

X XXVIII.— The  Heart  at  Midsummer— From  the  Life 288 

XXXIX.— Astrognosia 296 

XL.— Mr.  John  Pridefit  goes  to  the  AVedding 3fi2 

XLI — The  Return— The  Surprise 305 

XLII.— Mystery  Cleared  Up 307 

XLIII.— What  the  Critics  Say 315 

XLIV.— Compatibility 321 


NEPEN'THE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MR.   DOUGLASS   FINDS   A    DOCUMENT   NOT    IN    HIS    LINE. 

"  Life's  like  a  ship  in  constant  motion, 

Sometimes  high  and  sometimes  low; 
And  we  all  must  brave  the  ocean, 
Whatsoever  winds  may  blow." 

"  IF  you  will  walk  two  blocks  from  Mr.  Elden's,  then  turn 
up  a  narrow  street,  the  third  door  from  the  corner,  on  the 
right  hand  side,  you  will  see  an  old-fashioned  house,  with  a 
green  front  door,  and  on  the  door  an  old-fashioned  plate  ; 
inscribed  upon  its  brightly-polished  surface  in  plain  large 
letters,  is  the  simple  word — 

'  STUAIIT.'  " 

"  Are  you  sure  that  is  the  Stewart  I  want  ?"  said  Doug 
lass. 

"  I  think  so — it  is  the  only  one  I  know  of  in  the  vicin 
ity." 

Mr.  Douglass  was  a  small,  shrewd,  busy,  practical  man  ; 
he  hurried  on  in  pursuit  of  the  old  house  with  the  green 
door,  when  a  paper  partly  torn  and  folded,  lying  upon  the 
edge  of  the  walk,  attracted  his  attention  ;  fearing  sonic  of 
his  valuable  law-papers  might  have  escaped  from  his  capa 
cious  pocket,  he  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  It  proved  to  be 
the  fragment  of  an  old  letter,  written  in  a  lady's  hand,  de 
faced  and  torn  by  exposure  to  wind  and  rain.  The  first 
legible  sentence  began  with  the  words,  "  my  heart."  Yes, 
yes,  thought  Douglass,  every  thing  begins  with  the  heart — • 
but  it  ends  in  "  lands,  tenements,  and  hereditaments." 

1* 

- 


10  NEPENTHE. 

Mr.  Douglass  adjusts  his  spectacles  and  reads  on — "My 
heart,  like  too  many  human  hearts,  has  one  big  joy  in  it — 
and  like  too  many  more  human  hearts,  it  has  one  big  sorrow 
in  it.  Were  it  not  for  the  sorrow,  I  might  be  too  happy. 
Every  day  I  see  something  new  and  delightful  in  this  pre 
cious  joy,  yet  each  night  my  pillow  is  wet  with  tears  at  the 
remembrance  of  this  my  ever-living  mysterious  sorrow — a 
sorrow  I  cannot  reveal  to  all" — here  the  letter  was  torn  and 
soiled,  and  only  a  fragment  remained  legible. 

Mr.  Douglass  adjusts  his  spectacles  and  reads  on — "  You 
know  how  romantic  I  used  to  be  about  large  dark  eyes  and 
long  heavy  lashes.  I  have  now  just  such  eyes  and  lashes 
in  the  face  of  a  cherub  child  I  call  my  own — the  lashes  are 
like  dark  curtains  fringing  their  lids,  and  the  eyes  are  an 
exact  image  of  eyes  that  will  haunt  me  forever — they  are 
brilliant  and  soft,  expressive  yet  mild,  winning  yet  reso 
lute;  sometimes  I  think  I  see  around  her  perfectly  moulded 
young  head,  a  kind  of  halo  of  glory.  In  happier  days  I 
should  have  called  her  Aureola,  that  beautiful  name  given 
by  the  old  painters  to  the  crown  of  glory  around  the  heads  of 
their  saints  and  martyrs  ;  but  now,  I  cannot  call  her  any 
such  radiant  name,  my  life  is  too  dark — every  hour  for 
months,  has  sent  up  its  prayer,  that  this  shadow  may  be 
removed,  and  one  day  in  the  agony  of  my  supplication,  as 
my  tears  fell  on  her  curl  vailed  face  I  gave  her  the  name 
Nepen  the,  praying  that  like  the  magic  potion  of  the  old  Greek 
and  Roman  poets,  she  might  make  me  forget  my  sorrows 
and  misfortunes. 

"  This  little  joy-cup  I  hold  in  my  hand  so  carefully,  so 
anxiously.  If  she  sleeps,  I  fear  she  may  never  wake  ;  and 
if  she  is  ill,  I  fear  she  may  die  ;  if  she  is  out  of  my  sight 
a  moment,  I  tremble  lest  some  one  take  her  from  me,  and 
she  return  to  me  no  more. 

"  Until  my  Nepenthe  came,  this  old  house  seemed  like  a 
prison — I  could  not  write  you  before  ; — how  could  I  with 
the  weight  of  this  great  sorrow  pressing  heavily  upon  me  ? — 
I  have  now  much  business  to  attend  to.  1  wish  when  a  girl 
1  had  learned  a  little  of  law  ;  I  am  now  finding  the  difference 
between  law  and  equity — in  equity,  I  am  entitled  to  a  large 
fortune,  but  in  law,  strict  law,  I  don't  know  how  matters 
will  end,  but  here  comes  Mr.  Trap  to  see  about  that  mortgage, 
so  I  can  only  add  the  hope,  that  my  little  darling  may  be 


NEPENTHE.  1 1 

as  good  and  as  happy  as  you  were  when  I  first  saw  you  in 
that  dear  little  school  under  the  shade  of  the  old  elms  where 
we  passed  together  happy  hours  of  our  light-hearted  child 
hood." 

"  There — that  is  all  there  is  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Douglass, 
folding  up  the  paper,  "  we  have  such  windy  days  lately,  I 
suppose  it  must  have  blown  out  of  somebody's  window.  Sor 
row  !  sorrow  !  If  these  women  lose  a  lap-dog,  or  freeze  a 
rose-bush  they  call  it  sorrow,  if  they  are  in  trouble  they 
write  a  letter,  if  they  are  in  deeper  trouble  they  add  a 
postscript ;  if  Mary  should  see  this,  how  she  would  puzzle 
and  sympathize  over  it.  I'll  drop  this  in  her  box  of  literary 
curiosities,"  thought  he,  as  he  passed  rapidly  up  street. 

As  he  approached  the  old  house  with  a  green  door,  a 
delicate  looking  woman  stepped  over  the  threshold,  and  call 
ed  gently,  "  Nepenthe,  Nepenthe  ;  come  here,  Nepenthe." 

"  I  wonder  if  there's  more  than  one  Nepenthe  in  the 
world,"  thought  Mr.  Douglass,  in  his  practical  way,  as  a 
bright-eyed  child  suddenly  appeared  from  behind  a  corner, 
and  passed  quickly  into  the  house. 

As  he  entered  the  house,  a  queer,  haggard-looking  woman 
stood  near  the  door,  glancing  back  stealthily  yet  earnestly. 
Her  careless  worn  garments,  manifested  no  extreme  poverty, 
only  indifference  to  dress  and  manners.  She  had  walked  so 
far  that  morning,  without  observing  any  thing,  it  was  strange 
she  should  stop  so  near  that  particular  house,  and  look  up 
into  that  man's  face  with  such  an  eager,  curious  expression. 
Her  nose  was  long  and  prominent,  her  eyes  deep  set,  yet 
full  and  piercing.  As  he  entered  the  door,  she  muttered 
between  her  half-closed  teeth,  "  Yes,  he  is  a  lawyer."  She 
paused  a  moment  longer  as  the  door  closed,  and  then  passed 
on  with  a  hesitating  step,  muttering  again  as  she  tapped  her 
forehead  with  her  left  hand  in  an  emphatic,  violent  manner. 
"  Yes,  he  must  be  a  lawyer."  Bright-eyed  children,  digni 
fied  men,  beautiful  women  passed  by,  but  she  heeded  them 
not,  her  eyes  looked  ever  forward,  as  if  seeking  something 
in  the  distance. 

A  strange  looking  woman,  whispered  some  who  passed  her, 
as  she  walked  on  as  in  a  dream,  without  moving  to  the  right 
or  left  to  accommodate  any  passing  pedestrian.  At  length, 
starting  as  if  seized  and  propelled  by  some  sudden  impulse, 
she  walked  on  with  a  hurried  step,  as  if  bent  on  accomplish- 


12  NEPENTHE. 

ing  something  of  immediate  consequence,  and  passed  out  of 
sight. 

Five  minutes  after,  a  boy  rang  violently  Mrs.  Stuart's 
door  bell,  and  asked  if  there  was  a  lawyer  there  ?  that  a 
gentleman  in  Bleecker  street  wished  to  see  him  immedi 
ately  on  business  of  great  importance.  He  handed  Mr.  Doug 
lass  a  name  written  on  a  slip  of  paper. 

R.  T.  RIVINGTON, 

126  Bleecker  street. 

"  Rivington,  Rivington,"  said  Douglass,  "  why,  yes,  that 
is  my  old  friend  Rivington  ;  he  has  returned  from  Cuba. 
I'm  afraid  he  wants  me  to  draw  up  his  will, — he  looked 
like  a  ghost  when  he  went  away." 

After  some  rapid  walking,  and  long  impatient  riding,  Mr. 
Douglass  was  soon  at  the  door  of  tbe  house  mentioned  on 
the  paper.  "  Is  Mr.  Rivington  within  ?"  he  inquired, 
almost  out  of  breath  after  his  hurry. 

"  No  sir,  there's  no  such  person  here,  nor  is  there,  as  I 
know  on,  in  the  neighborhood,"  said  an  old  lady  who  opened 
the  door  and  looked  at  him  crossly  over  her  spectacles. 

"  That  is  what  I  call  a  complete  sell,"  said  Mr.  Douglass, 
frowning  his  heavy  eyebrows.  "  I'll  tell  that  boy  to  go  to 
thunder,  the  lying  rascal — 'there's  some  design  in  all  this. 
But  I'll  hurry  back,  I'll  not  be  foiled  by  this  scamp. 
When  was  a  Douglass  ever  foiled  1"  Mr.  Douglass  put  his 
foot  down  determinedly  and  resolutely,  looking  at  his  watch 
and  exclaiming,  "  This  paper  shall  be  signed,  and  signed  in 
time  it'  I  have  to  fly  for  it.  I'd  like  to  get  one  sight  of  that 
young  rascal,  wouldn't  I  blow  him  up  ?  I'd  put  him  through," 
said  he,  as  puffing  and  blowing,  and  frequently  exclaiming, 
"  Thunder  and  Mars,"  the  deities  mentioned  on  all  extra 
ordinarily  provoking  occasions,  he  actually  ran  to  the  house 
with  the  green  door,  exclaiming  all  out  of  breath,  "  Sign, 
madam,  sign,  only  sign  ;  there's  just  half  an  hour.  I'll  be  at 
the  City  Hall  in  time  if  you  sign  immediately." 

"  A  fine  form;  handsome  eyes,  yet  careworn  face,"  thought 
Mr.  Douglass,  wiping  his  spectacles,  as  the  lady,  plainly 
dressed  in  black,  beut  over  the  document  he  had  requested 
her  to  sign  and  wrote  in  a  firm  legible  hand,  "  CAROLINE 
STUART." 

There  was  nothing  unusual  in  her  manner,  only  a  quiet 


NEPENTHE.  13 

tear  dropped  on  the   end  of  the  word  Stuart  and  blurred 
the  "T"  a  little. 

Mr.  Douglass  was  soon  walking  back  and  forth  in  his  office, 
"  I  paid  about  fifteen  dollars  costs,"  said  he,  "  that  must  come 
out  of  these  scamps,  they'll  swear  to  all  sorts  of  things.  I 
hate  to  pile  up  a  big  bill  of  costs,  I  always  have  to  slide 
down  on  it  if  I  do.  I'll  make  about  fifty  dollars  out  of  this 
Stuart  operation — it  is  an  extra  case,"  thought  he,  as  he 
walked  back  and  forth,  "  'tis  an  extra  case,  worth  fifty 
dollars.  I'll  get  wifey  a  green  silk  dress,  green  suits  her 
complexion  best,  and  twenty  dollars  I'll  spend  in  ducking 
and  diving  at  Coney  Island.  Then  there's  that  suit  of  Mor 
gan's,  it  has  been  on  the  calendar  long  enough,  I  hope  it'll 
come  on  next  week." 

Mr.  Douglass  always  walked  back  and  forth  when  any 
important  matter  absorbed  his  attention ;  the  more  he 
thought,  the  faster  he  walked.  When  a  young  man  his 
maiden  aunt  often  preached  to  him  about  "  saving  his  steps," 
and  "  saving  the  carpet,"  but  he  walked  at  home,  he  walked 
at  school,  he  walked  at  college,  North  College,  north  section  ; 
he  walked  the  office,  he  walked  his  wife  nervous,  he  walked 
his  boots  thin — all  his  opinions  were  literally  walked  out. 
He  stopped  a  moment  to  give  an  advisory  shake  of  the  head 
to  the  boy  who  sat  before  a  desk  strewn  with  paper,  most 
demurely  copying  writs — he  was  ever  prompt,  correct  and 
exact  when  Mr.  Douglass'  shrewd  face  dawned  on  his  ex 
pectant  vision — but  no  deponent  hath  ever  said  how  many 
papers  he  did  not  serve  at  the  right  time,  or  how  many  small 
bills  he  collected  on  his  own  account. 

Mr.  Douglass  brushed  his  hair,  caressed  his  whiskers,  and 
glanced  at  the  calendar — the  calendar  was  full  of  Mr.  Doug 
lass  :  his  thoughts  were  all  available  ;  could  such  a  test  have 
been  applied  they  would  have  had  a  regular  metallic  ring — 
it  was  always  quid  pro  quo,  quid  pro  quo  ;  he  was  the  party 
of  the  first  part,  and  Mrs.  Douglass  party  of  the  second  part, 
and  both  these  petitioners  daily  prayed  in  their  hearts,  if 
not  with  their  lips,  that  the  house  in  Fifth  Avenue  might 
soon  be  bought,  furnished  and  occupied  by  Richard  Douglass 
and  Ellen  his  wife. 

He  was  saving  his  ideality,  he  owned  and  acknowledged, 
for  the  aforesaid  house.  Now  he  seated  himself  by  his 
desk,  quite  tired  after  his  his  up-town  journeying,  and 


14  NEPENTHE. 

commenced  stuffing  his  pigeon  holes  with  sundry  documents, 
collected  during  his  morning  tour,  or  left  on  his  table  while 
absent. 

Unless  for  business  purposes,  he  was  no  close  observer 
of  autographs  or  searcher  of  mysteries  ;  and  this  afternoon 
he  had  a  will  to  execute,  a  title  to  finish,  and  some  money  to 
let  out  on  bond  and  mortage,  so  he  thought  no  more  of  an  old 
picked-up  letter  which  by  some  strange  coincidence  had  fallen 
from  out  his  other  papers  and  was  lying  beside  the  one  just 
signed  "  Caroline  Stuart." 


CHAPTER    II. 

PRUDENCE  POTTER'S  DISCOVERIES — THE  DOCTOR'S  COMMENTS 

"  Through  the  closed  blinds  the  setting  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 

Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

By  Jacob  in  his  dream." 

NEPENTHE'S  eleventh  birthday  came ;  the  old  house 
looked  older  still,  the  door-plate  still  bright,  the  shadow  of 
the  maple  swept  gracefully  over  the  stones  without.  The 
shadow  of  a  great  sorrow  rested  within  ;  far  above  the  maple 
boughs,  rolled  the  gloomy  clouds  ;  down  th-ough  the  waving 
green  shone  the  gentle  stars. 

The  house  was  of  faded  brick — no  marble  front  attracted 
carriages  or  callers.  Now  and  then  a  rag-picker's  estab 
lishment  passed  leisurely  by.  The  house  looked  neglected, 
slats  and  shutters  were  broken,  and  the  paint  was  worn  off 
the  door,  all  the  wealthy  people  had  moved  up  town.  In 
that  narrow,  dull  street,  one  cool  autumnal  morning,  walked 
an  old  lady  who  was  carried  by  there  a  child  the  day  the 
house  was  finished.  Accustomed  for  fifty  years  to  daily 
walks  in  the  green  fields  about  her  country  home,  where 
nearest  neighbors  were  half  a  mile  distant,  this  visit  to  her 
city  cousins  was  no  trifling  event  in  her  hitherto  eventless 
life. 

It  was  a  long  way  hither,  and  now  the  hoarded  savings 
of  years  had  paid  her  journey's  expense.  She  must  see  all 
to  be  seen,  know  all  to  be  known.  She  might  never  come 


NEPENTHE.  15 

again — she  had  so  long  watched  the  growth  of  each  tree  in 
the  old  apple-orchard  and  the  coming  and  departure  of  each 
venturesome  fly  in  the  old  perpetually  scoured  kitchen. 

She  could  better  canvass  particulars,  thau  comprehend 
generals  ;  she  was  no  lion-hunter,  no  star  gazer,  no  searcher 
of  chief  attractions  ;  she  revelled  in  minute  details.  Her 
favorite  theme  was  exercise,  upon  it  She  theorized  and  prac 
ticed.  She  always  walked  daily  as  far  as  the  old  elm  tree 
in  the  conntry,  but  since  coming  to  the  city,  while  riding 
one  afternoon  in  an  omnibus  she  had  lost  her  money  so 
carefully  tied  in  her  silk  handkerchief,  so  that  her  subse 
quent  expeditions  were  on  foot.  But  one  day,  led  by  curi 
osity  to  join  a  pedestrian  crowd  in  a  procession  to  the 
Tombs,  she  had  lost  her  old  pocket-book  and  her  new  spec 
tacles  from  her  pocket,  and  ever  since  that  much  lamented 
catastrophe  she  only  walked  a  short  distance  from  home.  One 
morning,  tired  of  looking  down  into  her  cousin's  little  yard, 
on  the  weakly  grape-vine,  and  closely-cut  yellow  gra°s,  she 
started  out  for  a  tramp.  "  Dear  me  !"  thought  she,  "  if  I 
only  had  my  new  spectacles,"  as  she  paused  before  the  old 
green  door,  to  be  quite  sure  from  the  closely  curtained  and 
silent  looking  windows,  that  no  eye  was  observing  her  cu 
riosity,  she  spelled  the  letters,  "  S,  T,  U,  A,  R,  T — Stu 
art — nothing  but  Stuart.  Couldn't  they  afford  silver  enough 
for  the  whole  name  ?  Is  it  Doctor,  Captain,  or  Squire  ? 
James  Jones  married  a  daughter  of  one  Mrs.  Stuart.  I 
wonder  if  she  is  any  kin  to  this  Stuart.  I'll  find  out  some 
time,  and  tell  her,  I  know  Mrs.  Squire  Jones  ;  my  couisn's 
brother's  wife,  called  on  her  once,  but  she  never  returned 
the  call !  It  may  be  the  same  family,  they  have  a  large 
circulation  of  relatives  in  the  States." 

The  old  lady  had  three  rules  for  action  : 

Never  to  go  out  in  the  rain. 

To  be  always  ready  for  her  meals, 

And  to  get  her  money's  worth. 

After  many  walks,  she  concluded  there  were  no  gentle 
men  about  the  house,  therefore  no  name  but  Stuart.  This 
conclusion  was  satisfactorily  established  in  a  most  natural 
way.  When  looking  down  from  her  cousin's  third-story 
window  into  the  rear  of  the  old  brick  house  through  her  new 
spectacles  one  Monday  morning  and  examining  the  clothes 
on  ihe  line,  a  favorite  amusement  of  hers  ;  she  could  tell 


16  NEPENTHE. 

which  were  bleached,  which  unbleached,  which  new  and 
which  patched,  and  how  many  sheets  there  were  in  the 
wash,  "  No  men,  no  children,"  said  she,  as  she  put  in  her 
head  and  drew  off  her  spectacles. 

One  day  as  she  passed  she  saw  a  doctor's  gig  before  the 
green  door.  The  door-plate  was  not  as  brightly  polished  as 
usual,  the  Autumn  leaves  not  brushed  from  the  walk,  and 
the  pot  of  violets  always  set  under  the  open  window  was  not 
to  be  seen — somebody  must  be  sick,  and  she  had  lived  in 
that  street  two  whole  months,  and  not  known  who  it  was,  nor 
what  was  the  matter — she  must  call  and  see  that  afternoon, 
going  home  first  to  dinner — it  was  now  twelve,  by  the  old 
clock  on  the  brown  church  on  the  corner — but  it  rained  that 
afternoon,  and  it  rained  for  three  days,  and  so  her  curiosity 
waited. 

Morning  came  again,  and  the  sun  shone  through  folded 
curtains  into  Mrs.  Stuart's  room.  It  lingered  upon  her 
pillow,  as  she  turned  uneasily  after  a  restless  night.  In 
her  sleep  she  had  murmured  faintly,  "  Must  I  drink  this 
bitter  cup  " — when  all  alone  she  drew  from  under  her  pil 
low  the  letter  brought  by  the  postman  the  day  previous. 
Holding  it  in  her  trembling  hand  she  read  once  more,  the 
most  brief,  the  most  cruel  letter  a  strong  man  can  write  to 
a  frail  suffering  and  helpless  woman. 

Another  day  passed  and  the  invalid  was  a  little  better. 
The  violent  pain  in  her  head  was  soothed,  she  could  sleep 
longer.  "  I  have  nothing  now  but  this  poor  child  to  live 
for,"  thought  she,  "  It  is  my  duty  to  live.  I  must  try  to 
trust." 

She  had  awaked  but  recently  from  the  delirium  of  fever, 
she  could  not  think  long  on  any  subject,  but  texts  of  Scrip 
ture,  and  snatches  of  old  hymns  passed  pleasantly  through 
her  mind,  as  if  some  angel  having  charge,  was  giving  her 
famishing  spirit  morsels  of  comfort,  as  sho  could  bear  them. 
"  Up  to  the  hills  for  strength,"  seemed  singing  itself  along 
the  chords  of  her  soul,  and  her  crushed  spirit  was  becoming 
wondrous  hale  and  brave,  as  it  climbed  on  eagle's  wings 
those  sunny  hills. 

While  her  thoughts  wore  soaring  upward  for  strength  and 
consolation,  a  tall  form  closely  shawled  and  bonnetted,  hold 
ing  tightly  a  green  umbrella,  emerged  from  her  "  cousin's  " 


NEPENTHE.  17 

house,  and  passed  quickly  up  the  street,  and  paused  at  the 
green  door.  Looking  up  she  exclaimed — 

"  There — isn't  that  providential,  the  door  is  open  on  a 
crack,  I  will  go  in  quietly  as  I  would  call  on  an  old  neigh 
bor  at  home  ;  knocking  always  disturbs  sick  people  ;"  push 
ing  the  door  open  and  seeing  no  one,  she  walked  as  rapidly 
up  stairs  as  her  new  creaking  shoes  would  allow,  and  stop 
ping  before  the  door  of  the  room  whose  closely  curtained 
window  had  so  long  attracted  her  attention,  she  gave  three 
successive  knocks  with  her  umbrella  handle,  to  save  stretch 
ing  her  new  silk  gloves — and  was  answered  by  a  feeble 
"  come  in." 

Going  up  to  the  bedside  with  a  preliminary  throat  clean 
ing,  she  exclaimed — 

"  You  are  sick,  ain't  you  ?  very  sick  ?" 

"  Yes.     I  have  been  ill  some  time." 

"  You  are  more  poorly  than  I  thought  for  ;  I  saw  the 
doctor's  gig  before  the  door,  and  I  thought  it  was  heathen 
ish  not  to  come  and  see  you — but  I  didn't  know  how  dread 
ful  poorly  you  was.  My  name  is  Miss  Prudence  Potter  ; 
I'm  used  to  sick  folks.  My  family  died  of  consumption.  I 
took  care  of  all  of  them.  When  I  first  went  to  take  care  of 
brother  Simon,  he  looked  about  as  you  do,  he  lived  two 
months  after  that.  How  long  have  you  been  so  dreadful 
miserable  ?" 

"  I  have  been  confined  to  my  room  about  three  months," 
said  Mrs.  Stuart. 

"  Three  months,"  said  Miss  Prudence  ;  "  no  wonder 
you're  wasted  to  a  shadder.  Did  you  inherit  consumption 
from  your  father  or  mother  ?" 

"  From  neither,"  said  Mrs.  Stuart  faintly. 

"  Did  you  catch  cold  and  get  it  ?  I  suppose  the  doctor  calls 
your  disease  consumption  ;  you  look  consumptive  ;  your 
nails  are  hooked  over,  people  always  have  consumption 
when  their  nails  are  hooked.  Then  you  are  very  thin — 
there  are  great  holes  in  your  cheeks,  and  I  dare  say  you 
would  look  worse  if  you  were  sitting  up." 

"  My  physcian  says  my  lungs  are  not  diseased.  I  believe 
he  thinks  they  are  sensitive  ;  but  with  care  I  may  recover." 

"  These  doctors  don't  know  much  more  than  we  do. 
They  are  not  sure,"  said  Miss  Prudence.  "  People  used  to 
live  a  great  deal  longer  than  they  do  now,  and  they  didn't 


18  NEPENTHE. 

have  much  to  do  with  doctors  either.  Have  you  ever  lost 
any  brother  or  sister  ?" 

"  Yes,  one  of  yellow  fever,"  said  Mrs.  Stuart. 

"  How  long  since  he  died  ?" 

"  About  a  year,"  said  Mrs.  Stuart. 

11  Where  was  he  buried  ?" 

"  In  New  Orleans,  where  he  died." 

"  New  Orleans  ?"  said  Miss  Prudence.  "  Buried  in  New 
Orleans  !  in  the  ground  ?" 

"  We  have  not  yet  ascertained,"  said  Mrs.  Stuart. 

"  I  hope  not  in  the  ground,"  said  Miss  Prudence,  "  for 
I  have  been  told  you  can't  dig  any  where  there  without  soon 
coming  to  water — they  say  coffins  are  often  found  floating 
about  the  streets.  I  wouldn't  have  a  friend  buried  there 
for  any  thing ;  I  should  never  have  any  peace  or  comfort. 
It's  heathenish  to  bury  a  body  so." 

Miss  Prudence  didn't  see  that  Mrs.  Stuart's  pale  face 
was  growing  paler,  but  after  some  more  talk  about  New 
Orleans,  burials,  etc.,  she  suddenly  took  from  under  her 
shawl  a  little  cup,  covered  with  a  white  paper.  "  I  have 
brought  you  some  currant  jelly  of  my  own  make,  from 
country  currants,  fresh  and  nice  ;  I  thought  perhaps  you 
would  relish  it.  I  didn't  know  as  you  could  afford  such 
things.  You  can  keep  the  cup  carefully  for  it  belongs  to  a 
nice  set  of  chany,  my  mother's  wedding  set.  If  you  should 
need  a  watcher,  I'll  come  and  sit  up  with  you  any  time 
except  Saturday  nights  ;  that  child  looks  young  and  inexpe 
rienced — she  don't  know  much  about  nursing  ;  I  could  give 
her  a  few  valuable  hints,  I  know  so  much  about  consump 
tion.  But  don't  be  discouraged,  I've  seen  people  look  as  bad 
as  you  do,  and  live  along  quite  a  spell.  '  While  there's 
life  there's  hope.'  If  your  feet  should  swell,  (they  often  do 
in  the  last  stages,)  they  should  be  bandaged  ;  I'll  come  and 
bandage  them,  and  you  mustn't  see  much  company,  it's  very 
bad  for  you." 

Miss  Prudence  had  risen,  and  once  more  approached  the 
bed,  exclaiming,  "  Why,  what  makes  your  hair  so  grey  ? 
you  look  as  if  you  might  be  young,"  when  Nepenthe  came 
in,  and,  starting  as  if  surprised  to  see  a  strange  face,  placed 
a  bottle  on  the  mantlepiece.  Child  as  she  was,  she  noticed 
her  mother's  pale  face,  and  wished  the  stranger  would  go 
down  stairs  or  somewhere  else,  and  let  her  mother  rest.  But 


NEPENTHE.  1 9 

looking  down  significantly  on  Nepenthe,  as  such  faces  only 
can  smile  on  a  child,  the  old  lady's  critical  eyes  spied 
the  newly-arrived  bottle,  and  she  exclaimed  emphatically, 
"  Is  that  real  Port  wine?"  going  up  to  the  shelf. 

"  It  is,"  said  Nepenthe. 

"  I've  no  faith  in  wine,  nor  no  kind  of  spirituous  liquors," 
said  Miss  Prudence  Potter,  "  it  never  did  our  family  any 
good — I  never  derived  any  benefit  from  it.  It  costs  a  good 
deal,  too,"  said  she,  looking  expressively  around  the  room, 
as  if  in  their  apparently  moderate  circumstances,  it  was  a 
useless  and  foolish  expenditure.  "  My  cousin  Susan  was 
carried  through  a  severe  fit  of  illness  without  it.  I  used  of 
a  morning  to  beat  up  a  raw  egg  in  a  clean  saucer,  with  a 
small  tea-spoon  and  put  in  a  leetle  grain  of  sugar,  about  as 
much  as  you  put  on  the  end  of  a  knife,  and  give  it  to  her 
between  meals  ;  it  is  the  best  Zo-nike  you  can  take  ;  and  the 
wine  may  make  you  deli-rious,  too.  How  much  is  this  a 
bottle  ?"  said  she,  taking  it  up  in  her  hands,  and  examin 
ing  it  as  if  with  a  microscopic  eye. 

The  clock  struck  twelve  very  conveniently  just  then,  so 
she  waited  not  for  an  answer  to  her  last  question. 

Just  as  Nepenthe  opened  the  street  door  for  her  egress, 
Miss  Prudence  turned  and  said  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Your 
mother  looks  poorly,  very  poorly.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised 
if  she  didn't  last  long.  Did  your  father  die  of  consumption  ?" 
(determined  to  be  sure  of  this  fact.) 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am." 

"  What  was  the  nature  of  his  disease  ?"  persevered  Miss 
Prudence,  thinking,  as  many  others  do,  she  could  get  all  the 
particulars  by  catechising  the  child  closely. 

"  I  don't  know  as  he  is  dead." 

"  Not  dead,"  thought  Miss  Prudence  on  her  way  home, 
"  where  on  earth  can  the  man  be  ?" 

Soon  the  doctor  came  and  Nepenthe  went  to  prepare  her 
mother's  dinner.  There  were  oysters  to  be  slightly  cooked 
and  poured  over  crackers. 

"  How  is  this  ?"  said  the  doctor  examining  the  patient's 
pulse,  "  more  fever — cheeks  little  flushed,  temperature  of  the 
room  about  right — rest  well  last  night  ?" 

"  Yes,  better  than  usual,"  said  Mrs.  Stewart. 

"  Pulse  too  quick,"  said  the  doctor,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Pulse  too  quick — eaten  any  thing  stimulating  ?" 


20  NEPENTHE. 

"  No,  nothing  but  oysters." 

"  Oysters  can't  hurt  you — we  must  expect  changes— can't 
be  better  every  day — we  all  have  our  ups  and  downs.  I'll 
leave  you  some  lupulin  pills,  and  drop  in  again  this  evening. 
You  must  get  some  sleep.  You  mustn't  think  about  any  thing. 
Lie  still  and  count  black  sheep,  or  the  leaves  on  the  wall." 

"  How  is  this  ?"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  met  Nepenthe  in  the 
.hall — "  any  mental  agitation  ?" 

"  She^ad  a  call  while  I  was  out ;  an  old  lady  walked  in 
up  stairs  and  staid  a  good  while  ;  that  might  have  excited 
her.  I'm  afraid  mother  heard  what  she  said  in  the  hall,  she 
spoke  so  loud,  she  said  mother  wouldn't  last  long  " 

"  She  calls  herself  Miss  Prudence  Potter,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  She  ought  to  be  called  Miss  Impudence  Potter.  I'll  not 
have  her  going  around  visiting  my  patients,  telling  them 
how  miserable  and  dreadfully  poorly  they  look  ;  she'll  give 
more  fever  in  ten  minutes,  than  I  can  cure  in  a  month.  I'd 
like  to  feel  her  pulse  and  tell  her  she  needs  a  change  of  air  and 
quiet,  and  I'd  have  her  keep  lier  room  a  month  or  so.  She  goes 
round  like  a  raven,  croaking,  croaking  in  every  sensitive 
ear.  I  won't  have  it.  Look  at  that  sunshine,  stealing  in  that 
house  over  there,  brightening  everything  that's  dark — so  it 
should  be  with  those  who  visit  the  sick,  they  should  make 
every  thing  brighter.  Your  mother  will  get  well  yet.  But 
she  must  have  nothing  to  excite  her  ;  any  great  excitement 
will  place  her  beyond  the  reach  of  my  aid.  I  tell  you  this, 
child,  though  you  are  young,  very  young — .yet  you  can 
understand  me." 

As  the  doctor  left,  he  said  to  himself,  "  That  woman  has 
suffered  so  much,  and  is  prostrated  by  long  illness,  one  little 
trouble — one  more  care  might — yes,  it  might. 

"  What's  the  use  of  aggravating  the  world  so  ?"  he  went 
on  soliloquising,  as  he  drove  to  the  door  of  his  next  patient, 
"  if  you  do  meet  a  man  as  thin  as  a  rail,  and  pale  as  a  ghost, 
don't  tell  him  he  is  thin  ;  if  he  is  as  white  as  a  sheet,  don't 
tell  him  he  looks  miserable,  don't  tell  him  you  shouldn't 
have  known  him,  he's  changed  so — he'll  go  home  and  grow 
thinner  and  paler,  and  worry  himself  sick. 

"  All  these  croakers  that  go  around  with  their  long  wise 
faces  telling  people  how  poorly,  miserable  and  pale  they  look 
— I'd  like  to  shut  them  up  a  while  in  Sing  Sing — they  had 
belter  sing-sing  than  croak-croak — there  is  a  wonderful  con- 


NEPENTHE.  21 

nection  between  health  and  happiness,  convalescence  and 
cheerfulness.  That  was  very  true,  that  translation  from 
Friederich  von  Somebody — he  knew  something,  if  he  did 
live  way  back  in  the  seventeenth  century. 

" '  Joy  and  temperance  and  repose 
Slam  the  door  on  the  doctor's  nose.'  " 

Miss  Prudence  Potter  was  seated  at  the  dinner  table, 
before  a  cup  of  strong  black  tea,  unmitigated  by  sugar  or 
cream — she  could  not  be  persuaded  to  taste  of  that  poisonous 
city  milk,  and  the  sugar  was  so  mixed  with  flour,  there  was  no 
sweetness  in  it.  "  I  told  you,  Priscilla,"  stirring  the  spoon 
in  her  cup,  "  1  would  find  out  who  was  sick  in  that  house  ; 
I  don't  believe  in  being  so  ignorant  of  your  neighbors.  How 
are  you  going  to  love  your  neighbors  as  yourself,  if  you  don't 
know  who  they  are.  I  think  it  is  heathenish.  I  made  a 
call  there  this  morning,"  said  she,  smiling — and  such  a 
smile  !  Every  muscle  of  her  face  was  screwed  up  to  make 
that  perpetual  smile.  I  verily  believe  she  would  smile  even 
at  a  chicken  if  she  stumbled  over  one  on  the  walk.  It  was  a 
geometrical  smile  with  an  infinite  series  of  grins.  I  have  often 
wondered  if  she  really  had  that  smile  when  she  was  all  alone, 
whether  she  went  to  bed  with  it  and  woke  up  with  it. 

Far  more  agreeable  is  the  stern  frown  of  a  dignified  man 
or  the  thoughtful  glance  a  of  true-hearted  woman  than  this 
live-forever  smile  of  one  who  at  heart  cares  not  if  you  are 
living  or  dead,  yet  she  will  smile  and  smile  as  she  just 
touches  your  hand  and  says,  "  I  hope  you  are  well." 

Such  eternal  smiles  are  only  caricatures  of  those  sunny 
flashes,  the  play  of  the  best  feelings  and  kindest  thoughts 
as  they  ripple  up  from  the  clear  depths  of  an  innocent  heart 
— only  a  stereotyped  plate  with  which  every  look,  tone,  and 
word  of  a  shallow  heart  is  issued. 

'•  She  would  look  at  you  up  and  down,  and  then  across, 
measuring  with  sharp  eye  your  latitude  and  longitude, 
wondering  about  the  probable  cost  of  your  dress,  as  she 
looked  over  her  spectacles  to  inquire  how  you  were  getting 
on,  seeming  to  say,  "  I  could  tell  you  a  much  better  plan 
than  the  one  you  are  pursuing — I  could  ^ave  a  great  deal,  if 
I  could  manage  for  you." 

With  no  idea  of  etiquette,  she  went  right  at  a  subject, 
handling  it  with  shovel,  tongs  or  poker,  using  the  nearest 


22  NEPENTHE. 

weapon.  She  never  skirmished  around  ideas  with  plausible 
words.  If  she  had  never  seen  you  before,  she  would  walk 
right  up  to  you,  and  if  you  had  on  a  good-shaped  collar 
ask  you  for  a  pattern  of  that  collar.  It  was  amusing  to  see 
her  approach  all  classes  with  so  much  assurance  ; — there 
was  no  hinting  her  down,  if  she  came  to  ask  the  price  of 
your  new  carpet.  All  dignity,  reserve,  elegance  and 
hauteur  were  wasted  on  her.  "  My  pedigree  is  as  good  as 
anybody's,"  she  would  say,  "my  father  was  deacon  in 
parson  William's  church,  and  my  grandfather  was  a  Baptist 
minister."  Were  her  royal  majesty  the  Queen  Victoria  to 
appear  in  full  suit  she  would  probably  walk  up  before  her 
to  shake  hands,  saying,  "  How  do  you  do,  Victoria  ?  I  hope 
you  are  well." 

"  That  Mrs.  Stuart  is  an  examplarous  woman,"  she  said, 
as  she  took  up  her  ball  of  mixed  yarn,  and  began  setting  up  a 
stocking  for  cousin  "  Susan's  intended" — "  but  I  wonder  what 
she  had  that  basket  by  her  bed  for.  When  she  turned  her 
head  to  cough,  I  tried  to  raise  the  lid  a  little  with  my  um 
brella  handle,  and  I  could  just  see  a  whole  row  of  little 
stuffed  Quakers,  with  real  bonnets  on,  like  the  one  Rachel 
Strong  had  on  when  she  came  back  from  yearly  meeting. 
I  wanted  to  take  one  in  my  hand,  to  see  what  they  were 
made  of,  but  I  thought  I'd  wait  a  spell.  I  forgot  to  ask  about 
them,  when  that  child  came  in  ;  she  had  such  a  queer  name, 
it  put  the  Quakers  all  out  of  my  head.  I  never  heard  such  a 
name.  Why,  Priscilla,  you  might  guess  all  through  the  spell 
ing  book,  and  you  wouldn't  guess  it.  I've  looked  all  through 
the  Bible  and  can't  find  it,  though  I  suppose  it  is  somewhere 
in  the  Old  Testament  among  those  strange  Jewish  names. 
If  Mrs.  Stuart  warnt  so  examplarous  I  should  think  it  was 
some  heathenish  name  ;  but  it  can't  be,  for  she's  a  professor, 
and  I'm  sure  there's  names  enough,  without  going  to  forrin 
parts  for  one.  Nepenthe,  Nepenthe — I'll  ask  her  next  time 
what  part  of  the  Old  Testament  she  found  that  in,  but  I  would 
like  to  know  what  those  stuffed  Quakers  were  for,"  said  she 
again  as  she  smiled  to  herself  and  went  on  with  her  knitting. 
There  was  a  slight  variation  in  that  smile  a  half  an  hour 
afterwards,  when  Bridget  actually  brought  up  from  the 
ironing,  her  "  span  clean,  bran  new"  handkerchief  scorched 
in  one  corner  where  Levi  Longman  had  designed  with  in 
delible  ink  the  wreath  of  flowers  inclosing  her  name.  "  Oh 


NEPENTHE.  23 

dear  !"  she  said  dropping  a  stitch  in   her  knitting.     "  Pru 
dence  did  look  so  beautifully  written  in  a  round  hand,   and 
now  it  is  as  yellow  as  saffron  dye,  it  might  as  well  be  old  as 
the  hills.  I  wish  it  had  been  my  old  silk  one." 

There  she  sat  in  her  cousin  Priscilla's  best  room,  you  could 
see  her  smile  and  hear  the  click  of  her  needles  making  their 
rows  of  decades  as  she  said  to  herself  what  she  had  written 
in  her  copy-book  years  ago— 

"  Never  less  alone  than  when  alone." 

On  the  page  before  she  had  written  and  copied  well  in 
her  head — 

"  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is." 

What  a  mind !  what  a  kingdom !  what  an  independent 
monarchy  !  an  absolute  sovereignty  ! 

She  always,  if  possible,  spoke  in  set  phrases  which  she 
had  used  faithfully  the  last  thirty  years.  If  you  knew  her 
well  you  could  quite  accurately  guess  her  probable  exclama 
tion  "in  sundry  times  and  divers  manners  ;"  that  is,  given  a 
set  of  circumstances,  you  could  guess  her  corollaries  and 
conclusions.  She  was  not  one  of  those  who  tit  down  and 
grieve  and  sigh  over  words  thoughtlessly  spoken  or  deeds 
wrongly  done,  wondering  what  she  "  did  that  for,"  while 
her  pride  was  writhing  and  torturing  itself  on  the  hot  coals 
of  regret.  She  always  did  her  best — "  Who  could  do 
more." 

In  every  affliction,  dispensation,  accident,  the  climax  and 
quietus  of  all  her  sentimental,  ideal,  and  pathetic  flights, 
was  this  line — also  written  in  her  copy-book. 

"  What  can't  be  cured  must  be  endured." 

Oh,  Miss  Prudence,  how  delightful  it  must  be  to  feel 
that  you  always  look  well,  always  talk  well,  always  think 
well,  always  manage  well,  that  however  weak,  foolish,  and 
wrong  everybody  else  is,  you  are  right. 


24  NEPENTHE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MR.    TRAP    HOLDS     FORTH    AND     COMES    TO    A   CLIMAX. 

"  Logic  forever ! 
That  beats  my  grandmother,  and  she  was  clever." 

"  This  lawyer,  you  know,  could  talk,  if  you  please, 
Till  the  man  in  the  moon  would  allow  'twas  all  cheese." 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

MRS.  TRAP  was  very  restless,  very — first,  she  took  the 
evening  paper  and  tried  to  read,  then  she  went  to  the  win 
dow  and  looked  out,  and  finally,  taking  that  best  of  all  seda 
tives,  her  knitting,  she  seated  herself  in  her  rocking-chair, 
occasionally  glancing  at  Mr.  Trap — who, -with  his  hands  full 
of  papers,  bills,  and  receipts,  sat  doing  them  up  in  separate 
packages. 

"  Mr.  Trap,"  said  she,  s'uddenly  dropping  a  stitch  in  her 
knitting,  "  Mr.  Trap,  are  you  really  going  to  foreclose  Mrs. 
Stuart's  mortgage  ?" 

"  It  is  my  intention    to  do  so  ,"  said  Mr.    Trap,    dryly. 

"  But,  Mr.  Trap,  is  it  right  to  deprive  a  widow  of  her  shel 
ter,  particularly  in  her  delicate  health,  when  a  little  money 
paid  down  would  save  her  a  home,  and  perhaps  keep  her 
alive  ?" 

"  Right,  right,  madam,  you're  always  preaching  about  right 
— what  do  you  know  about  business  affairs  ?  I  shall  do 
nothing  contrary  to  law.  You  do  very  well,  madam,  in  your 
own  sphere,  but  you  nor  any  other  woman  know  anything 
about  business  matters — what  do  you  know  about  law  ? 
Luw  is  law.  I  invited  you,  Mrs.  Trap,  to  take  charge  of  this 
establishment,  to  rule  in  the  kitchen  and  preside  in  the  par 
lor — of  my  shirts,  collars,  clothes,  and  food,  you  have  the 
arrangement,  the  control,  but  you  are  not  to  interfere  with 
my  business  matters.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  be  rich, 
cost  what  it  may.  Law  is  law."  Mrs.  Trap  sighed,  and  men 
tally  said,  "  Yes,  law  is  law,  and  equity  is  equity."  "  Money 
does  every  thing,"  continued  Mr.  Trap,  "  money  does  every 


NEPENTHE.  25 

thing  ;  no  matter  how  good  you  are,  no  matter  how  wise 
you  are,  who  can  do  without  money  1  Money  only  gives 
power,  gives  position,  and  position  is  every  thing,  Mrs. 
Trap.  There  are  men  in  this  city,  courted  and  flattered, 
bowed  to  and  fawned  around,  who  if  they  were  poor  to-mor 
row,  would  not  be  tolerated  in  any  decent  society.  Might 
makes  right,  and  money  is  might.  If  women  ruled  affairs 
I  wonder  how  our  agricultural  and  commerical  interests 
would  prosper,  or  our  government  officials  be  paid  ;  how 
many  profitable  investments  made."  Mr.  Trap  paused  to 
take  breath,  and  Mrs.  Trap  said  mildly,  "  Remember  the  ser 
mon,  my  dear,  last  Sabbath  morning's  sermon,  'The  love  of 
money  is  the  root  of  all  evil.'  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  he,  "  I  could  preach  another  from  just 
as  true  a  text,  money  is  the  root  of  all  good.  What  good  or 
goods  can  you  get  without  it,  'tis  not  only  the  root  of  good, 
but  the  tree,  and  the  branches  and  flowers — food,  clothes, 
houses,  lands,  every  thing.  I  will  be  a  rich  man  before  I 
die.  In  this  city,  we  must  make  all  the  clear  gain  we 
can.  I  got  this  house  by  just  such  another  operation. 
What  a  lawyer  you'd  make,  madam  !  If  we'd  get  along 
fast  in  the  world,  we  must  put  people  through,  put  'em 
through.  These  ministers — why,  they  think  just  as  much 
of  money  as  we  do — and  they  get  it  easy  enough,  too.  If 
they  can  get  a  fat  salary  in  a  more  fashionable  church,  they 
preach  a  farewell  sermon  to  their  beloved  flock,  and  off  they 
go,  as  they  say,  '  to  do  more  good  in  an  enlarged  sphere  of 
usefulness.'  I'm  going  to  enlarge  my  sphere  of  usefulness, 
Mrs.  Trap  !  I  heard  the  Rev.  Dr.  Smoothers  say  the  other 
day  that  proprietorship  is  inherent  in  man's  nature.  '  God 
made  gome  to  be  above  others.' 

"  You  talk  about  Providence  opening  a  door.  I  tell  you 
you've  got  to  open  fortune's  door  yourself,  or  you  may 
stand  outside  and  freeze  forever.  I  wonder  if  you  had  a 
note  to  pay  at  three  o'clock  to-morrow,  if  this  bank  of  Prov 
idence  would  cash  it.  Put  your  bills  in  that  bank  of  Prov 
idence,  or  that  famous  bank  of  Faith  either,  you'll  neither 
get  principal  nor  interest.  There  is  a  pretty  heavy  discount 
on  that  bank.  Then  where's  your  certified  check  ?  The 
bank  of  Providence  pays  in  bills  of  faith,  hope  and  charity. 
These  are  all  shinplasters  when  you  want  hard  dollars  ;  their 
value  on  demand,  situate  lying  and  being  in  the  moon. 

2 


26  NEPENTHE. 

There's  no  paying  teller  in  that  bank  ;  you  may  put  in  and 
put  in,  and  yet  never  get  any  thing  out.  What  kind  of  a 
legal  tender  would  humility  constitute  ?  You've  had  so 
much  laid  up  in  that  bank  of  Providence  for  years — you 
ought  to  be  pretty  rich  now,  Mrs.  Trap. 

"  If  I  should  ever  fail,  my  assets  would  be  in  western 
lands.  I'll  fail  for  about  half  a  million.  I  shall  pay  you 
over,  madam,  as  the  favorite  creditor,  about  thirty  thousand 
for  good  advice  and  services  rendered,  and  then  you  can 
support  me,  you  know. 

"  The  land  for  which  I  paid  three  dollars  an  acre  last  year, 
I  can  sell  for  eight  hundred  now.  This  Stuart  operation  is 
a  real  streak  of  luck.  Is  Mrs.  Stuart  one  of  the  silk 
stocking  gentry  ?  Is  she  the  French  china  of  humanity  that 
she  shouldn't  be  put  through  according  to  law  ? 

"  There's  too  much  of  this  Presbyterian  cant ;  this  ortho 
doxy,  tight  as  a  drum,  now  in  the  world.  You  women  jump 
at  conclusions,  you  make  a  'twill  do  of  every  thing  " — 'twill 
do,  was  Mr.  Trap's  favorite  phrase  when  he  wished  to  ex 
press  the  height  of  inefficiency.  "  I  shall  keep  my  mascu 
line  prerogative,  I  shall  get  all  the  lands,  tenements,  and 
hereditaments  :  I  can,  if  all  the  women  in  creation  keep  up 
an  infernal  charivari  in  my  ears  ;"  charivari  was  the  only 
French  word  Mr.  Trap  knew,  and  it  was  a  mystery  to  Mrs. 
Trap  how  he  learned  that.  Mr.  Trap  looked  over  his  spec 
tacles,  as  if  his  wife's  arguments  were  annihilated  by  this 
chef  d'oovre  of  logic — this  last  sounding,  flourishing,,  com 
plimentary  climax. 

He  sat  in  his  chair  and  thus  silently  soliloquized  : 

"  I  am  glad  I  dissolved  the  partnership  with  that  squeam 
ish  Douglass,  he  never  would  jump  into  a  case  unless  he 
could  be  up  to  his  eyes  in  honesty.  This  double  refined 
outrageous  honesty  is  all  perfect  popcockery." 

He  sat  about  five  minutes  looking  over  some  old  accounts 
of  the  firm  of  Douglass  &  Trap. 

It  disturbed  the  dignity  of  his  masculine  prerogative,  to 
speak  so  soon  again  after  his  recent  powerful  remarks.  But 
he  did  speak,  for  he  wanted  to  see  something  in  that  day's 
"  law  reports." 

"  Did  the  carrier  come  this  morning?  Where  in  thunder 
is  that  paper  ?" 


NEPENTHE.  27 

"  He  didn't  come  this  morning,"'  said  Mrs.  Trap  in  a  low 
mild  voice. 

"  Didn't  come  !  Well  I  want  to  see  him  to-morrow  morn 
ing.  Do  you  understand  ?  and  tell  him  if  he  can't  bring  my 
paper  earlier,  I  shall  stop  it.  The  lazy  scamp  goes  moping 
along  puffing  his  cigar — gets  here  about  ten  o'clock  with  the 
outrageous  iie  '  that  the  steamer  hadn't  got  in  yet.'  I'll 
stop  the  paper,  and  if  you  don't  blow  him  up,  I  will.'' 

Mr.  Trap  believed  firmly  in  the  gunpowder  suasion — if 
the  cook  was  slow  and  careless,  "  blow  her  up,"  "  breathe 
the  breath  of  life  into  her."  If  the  biscuits  are  burned,  or 
a  goblet  broken,  "  Why  don't  you  blow  her  up  ?"  So  fond 
was  he  of  blowing  people  up,  he  might  well  be  appointed  to 
construct  and  take  the  directing  of  a  powerful  magazine  to 
blow  up  all  the  evils  in  the  country.  Commander-in  chief 
of  the  gunpowder  army,  as  if  evil — solid,  substantial,  heavy 
as  it  is,  if  blown  up,  wouldn't  come  down  larger,  more  solid, 
heavier  than  ever. 

If  we  could  get  some  kind  of  philosophic  glass,  and  take  a 
good  look  at  Mr.  Trap's  conscience,  'twould  be  made  of 
something  like  gutta  percha,  it  would  stretch  the  whole 
length  and  width  of  a  Blackstone,  and  wouldn't  be  able  to 
take  in  these  minor  decisions,  such  as  the  ten  statutes  once 
promulged  on  tables  of  another  kind  of  stone"  by  a  Hebrew 
law-giver.  The  golden  rule  he  used  to  say  was  nothing  but 
jeweller's  gold,  and  only  plated  at  that — he  never  found  it 
of  any  weight  in  the  scales  of  equal  justice.  His  rule  was 
never  to  do  any  thing  for  any  body,  unless  he  was  well 
paid  for  it. 

Mr.  Trap  was  not  always  so  cross,  but  he  had  been  beaten 
that  afternoon  in  a  game  of  chequers.  He  never  would  own 
that  he  could  be  beaten  in  any  game.  He  used  to  keep  a 
few  chequers  stowed  away  under  his  coat  sleeve,  ready  to 
drop  down  in  the  most  desirable  places,  when  his  opponent's 
back  was  turned.  But  this  afternoon  his  defeat  was  owing  to 
some  "  disturbing  cause."  Then  he  had  rolled  ten  pins,  and 
been  beaten  in  that,  too — he  declared  this  was  because  the 
boy  didn't  set  them  up  right,  though  the  party  of  the  second 
part  demurred  from  that  opinion. 

Then  the  truth  must  come  out.  He  had  lost  a  case  in  the 
Superior  Court,  because,  as  he  said,  the  witnesses  didn't 
swear  to  enough. 


28  NEPENTHE. 

Mrs.  Trap  had  her  burden  to  bear,  so  had  the  carrier — 
up  till  half-past  eleven  at  night,  up  at  one  the  next  morn 
ing,  walking  fifteen  zigzag  miles  that  day,  up  all  night  on 
Saturday.  So  he  toils,  while  the  grumbler  sleeps  on  his 
soft  pillow,  and  if  his  paper  is  not  by  his  plate  at  breakfast 
to  greet  his  sleepy  eyes,  there  echoes  in  trumpet  tones 
through  the  dining  room,  "  Stop  that  paper.  I  will  not  en 
courage  such  laziness." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  carrier,  one  morning,  as  he  carried  along 
his  head  ache  and  his  bundle,  through  wind,  rain,  and  sleet, 
"  poverty  is  not  a  crime,  but  it's  terrible  onconvenient." 

I  wonder  if  he  of  all  men  couldn't  agree  with  Southey 
about  the  road  of  life,  "  There  is  a  good  deal  of  amusement 
on  the  road,  but,  after  all,  one  wants  to  be  at  rest." 

Rest,  rest,  rest — there's  no  rest  for  mortal  burden  carriers 
on  the  rough  road  of  life. 

Chiming  high  up  in  the  great  tower  of  humanity,  is  the 
yearning,  soothing,  unquiet  refrain — rest,  rest,  rest. 

Rest,  rest,  rest,  tolls  the  starlit  clock  on  the  stairs  of  time. 

Higher  up  in  the  eternal  dome,  strikes  forever  the  immor 
tal  horologe,  rest,  rest,  rest. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.  STUART'S  AFFAIRS  SUDDENLY  CLOSE  UP. 

"  Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 
The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory  ! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 
O'er  Sappho's  memory -haunted  billow. 
But  where  the  glistening  night  dews  weep 
On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 

'•  0,  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 
Save  whitening  lips  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 
Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing  presses, 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 
To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 
As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven !" 

JUST  a  month  after  the  conversation  in  our  last  chapter, 
Mrs.  Trap  took  up  the  morning  paper  ;  as  men  say  women 
always  do,  she  looked  tirst  at  the  marriages  and  deaths. 


NEPENTHE.  29 

The  paper  fell  from  her  hands,  and  she  uttered  an  ex 
clamation  of  surprise,  followed  by  a  long  sigh. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Stuart  is  dead,"  said  she  to  Mr.  Trap,  who  was 
looking  over  his  "  Revised  Statutes."  Mrs.  Trap  took  up 
the  paper  again,  and  re-read,  as  if  to  be  sure  it  really  was 
"  Mrs.  Caroline  Stuart." 

"  Ah  !  is  she  !"  said  he,  rising  suddenly.  "  I  thought  she 
was  one  of  those  kind  of  people  that  never  would  die.  I'll 
have  a  title  that'll  do  for  any  State  in  the  Union  ;  there's 
almost,  as  many  changes  in  this  case,  as  there  is  in  the 
nine  bells.  I've  a  pretty  good  legal  claim  to  hang  on  to. 
I  won't  let  them  kick  out  of  the  traces  ;  we'll  want  unanim 
ity  and  concentration.  Smith'll  be  as  mad  as  a  March  hare. 
I'll  finish  up  this  matter  ;  now  we'll  advertise.  There's  no 
body  to  interfere,  we  can  put  that  thing  right  through,"  and 
he  whispered  to  himself  as  he  went  out  of  the  door, 
"  Mrs.  Elliott  is  sure  of  a  fortune  now,  but  I'll  make  her 
pay  me  well  for  it." 

Mrs.  Trap  sighed  again,  as  he  closed  the  door.  "  Yes," 
said  she,  "  Mrs.  Stuart  was  literally  put  through  the  world  ; 
but  she's  passed  into  the  possession  of  a  house  not  made 
with  hands.  I'm  glad  there's  no  mortgage  to  foreclose  up 
there  ;  the  title  to  that  inheritance  is  certain,  and  well  se 
cured.  But  there'll  be  a  pretty  heavy  judgment  entered 
up  there.  I  wonder  who'll  pay  the  costs." 

Mrs.  Trap  went  around  the  house,  polishing  mahogany., 
arranging  drawers,  and  dusting  out  .the  parlors,  as  she 
always  did  when  her  heart  was  heavy  ;  she  went  about  sing 
ing  with  a  trembling,  mournful  voice,  stopping  every  now 
and  then,  to  wipe  away  a  tear  that  would  come  : 

"  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear, 

To  mansions  in  the  skies  ; 
I'll  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 
And  wipe  my  weeping  eyes 

"  Let  cares  like  a  wild  deluge  come, 

Let  storms  of  sorrow  fall, 
So  I  but  safely  reach  my  home, 
My  God,  my  Heaven,  my  All. 

"  There  I  shall  bathe  my  weary  soul 

In  seas  of  heavenly  rest, 
And  not  a  wave  of  trouble  roll 
Across  my  peaceful  breast." 


30  NEPENTHE. 

This  dear  old  hymn,  like  a  nightingale  in  the  great  heart 
of  humanity,  has  lulled  many  a  weary  soul  to  rest.  Mrs. 
Stuart,  the  night  before  her  death,  sat  up  supported  by 
pillows,  and  in  a  clear  voice  of  unearthly  sweetness,  sung  it 
unfalteringly  through.  How  the  worn  spirit  gathers  at 
times,  wondrous  strength  as  it  throws  off  its  earth  mantle, 
to  plunge  in  the  swelling  tide  of  the  dark  river. 

While  Mrs.  Trap  is  singing  her  sorrow  to  sleep,  like  a 
sobbing  child,  Miss  Prudence  acts  ;  she  deliberately  attires 
herself  for  another  walk  to  the  old  brick  house.  She  gets 
out  from  the  closet  the  straw  hat  with  the  green  ribbon,  the 
high-crowned  cap  with  a  frill  all  around,  her  brown  shawl, 
and  the  grey  bag.  She  never  went  out  without  her  "  riti- 
cule,"  she  said,  with  her  two  handkerchiefs,  one  of  silk  and 
the  other  of  linen,  to  be  kept  round  the  suuff  box  filled  with 
choice  Maccaboy.  The  shawl  when  taken  off,  was  carefully 
folded  in  the  same  folds  it  had  when  purchased  eight  years 
ago.  This  was  her  invariable  promenade  costume. 

"  We  must  all  die,"  said  she  to  Nepenthe  as  she  entered 
the  deserted  chamber.  "  Your  mother  was  sick  so  long,  it 
didn't  take  you  by  surprise  ;  I  suppose  you  were  ready  for  it ; 
her  sickness  must  have  been  a  great  expense.  I  was  afraid 
she  might  last  all  winter,  and  it  would  have  cost  a  great 
deal — but  I  always  thought  if  she'd  had  Doctor  Brown,  )ie 
might  have  helped  her.  Cousin  Priscilla  says  she  ought  to 
have  been  taken  out  in  the  fresh  air  often,  and  not  kept  con 
fined  in  bed  all  the  time.  I  dare  say  you  didn't  know  it, 
but  it  was  the  worst  thing  you  could  have  done.  If  /  had 
had  the  care  of  her,  I'd  had  her  walking  all  around  long 
ago  ;  but  you'd  better  sweep  out  this  room,  some  folks  might 
be  coming  in,  and  it  don't  look  very  tidy,  and  I'll  take  that 
pot  of  Johnny-jumpers  home  out  of  your  way.  I  guess 
cousin  Priscilla  has  room  for  'em.  I  suppose  you'll  leave 
here  soon,  and  want  to  sell  off  some  things.  There's  that 
shawl  of  your  mother's,  it  is  old  fashioned  now.  and  a  little 
faded — 'tisn't  worth  much,  but  I'd  take  it  for  three  shillings 
to  accommodate  you  ;  plain  modest  colors  do  very  well  for 
me.  I'll  give  as  much  as  any  one  for  it,"  said  she,  smiling, 
and  attempting  to  make  her  voice  more  persuasive,  for  she 
really  wanted  the  shawl. 

"  I  cannot  sell  mother's  shawl,"  said  Nepenthe  with  quiv 
ering  lips. 


NEPENTHE.  31 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Miss  Prudence  rising,  "  you'll  see  the 
day  when  you'll  be  willing  to  take  a  friend  s  advice."  With 
out  formal  adieus,  she  disappeared,  emphatically  closing  the 
door  behind  her. 

"  Pride  and  poverty,"  exclaimed  Miss  Prudence,  as  she 
entered  her  cousin's  door,  "  always  together.  There's  that 
child  as  proud  as  a  queen,  and  my  word  for  it,  she's  as  poor 
as  a  church  mouse,  and  think  of  all  the  wine  they've  bought 
that's  no  use  now.  I  went  there  to  give  her  some  advice, 
to  help  her,  but  I  got  my  labor  for  my  pains  ;  then  she 
wouldn't  even  give  me  those  Johnny-jump-ups,  to  bring  to 
the  children  ;  and  to  think  of  the  interest  I've  taken  in  her 
mother,  too  ;  she  is  going  to  put  them  on  the  grave,  as  if 
any  body  could  be  any  better  off  under  ground,  with  flowers 
growing  by  their  tombstone.  It's  heathenish  !" 

"  I  wish,  oh,  I  wish,"  sobbed  Nepenthe  as  she  knelt  by 
the  bed  that  lonely  night,  "  I  wish  I  could  stay  here  always 
and  have  every  thing  just  as  she  left  it." 

At  last  she  went  to  the  window,  as  she  had  done  for 
weeks,  to  close  the  shutters,  she  could  hear  the  moaning 
night-wind  as  the  black  clouds  moved  gloomily  over  the  sky. 
Only  one  star  could  be  seen,  and  that  was  soon  covered — 
"  The  last  star  has  gone  out,"  sobbed  Nepenthe  as  she  rest 
ed  her  aching  head  on  the  table — she  raised  her  head  at 
last,  and  opened  her  mother's  bible,  and  read  this  verse 
which  met  her  eye — 

"  I  am  the  root  and  offspring  of  David,  the  bright  and  the 
morning  star." 

Then  she  turned  over  the  leaves,  and  read  on  the  first 
page  in  her  mother's  hand  written  with  a  pencil — 

"  The  path  of  the  just  is  as  the  shining  light,  that 
shineth  more  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day." 

Nepenthe  read  it  over  and  over — and  as  long  as  she  lived, 
these  words  would  come  every  day  to  her  mind ;  she  lived  long 
enough  to  know  there  is  nothing  on  earth  that  grows  brighter 
and  brighter  but  this  shining  path  of  the  just. 

Mr.  Trap  passed  rapidly  down  the  street  that  evening,  to 
the  office  of  Mr.  Douglass.  Mr.  Douglass  was  in  his  office 
writing  all  the  evening ;  it  was  something  unusual  for 
him. 

V  Douglass,"  said  he,  "  you  may  put  on  your  list  of  house? 
to  rent,  Mrs.  Stuart's — possession  given  immediately — we'll 


32  NEPENTHE. 

have  that  thing  put  right  through.  It  has  happened  right 
after  all ;  it  is  a  good  time  to  rent  houses  now.  We'll  say 
nothing  about  there  having  been  a  death  in  the  house,  for 
some  people  are  so  superstitious. 

As  Mr.  Trap  was  on  his  way  home,  a  tall,  stern  looking 
woman,  with  hollow  eyes  and  prominent  n  >se,  came  in  most 
unceremoniously,  upon  Nepenthe's  tearful  silence. 

"  Child,"  said  she,  "  don't  sit  here  so  long  crying  ;  you 
can  never  bring  the  dead  back.  There's  worse  off  than  you 
are — why,  you  might  be  dead  yourself.  Lie  down  on  that 
bed  and  sleep  ;  I'll  watch  to-night.  There's  no  use  crying 
your  strength  away — you'll  need  it  enough  yet." 

Nepenthe  sat  motionless  with  grief,  but  with  wide  open 
staring  eyes. 

The  woman  looked  astonished  at  the  still,  resolute  child, 
keeping  her  sleepless  vigil  by  her  dead  mother — she  looked, 
and  then  walked  quietly  out,  muttering. 

In  half  an  hour  she  returned  with  a  plate  and  a  cup, 
saying,  "  I  shouldn't  wonder,  child,  if  you'd  eaten  nothing 
to-day  ;  here  is  a  roll  and  a  cup  of  tea — try  them,  they'll  do 
you  good." 

Nepenthe  sobbed  again  ;  she  had  bought  rolls  last  week 
for  he»  mother's  breakfast.  She  shook  her  head  mourn 
fully. 

"  Then  drink  this  tea.  It  will  do  you  good.  It  would 
please  your  mother,"  added  the  woman,  in  an  imperative 
tone.  Half  frightened,  and  really  thirsty,  Nepenthe  drank 
half  the  cup  of  tea,  and  soon  sunk  into  in  a  deep,  quiet 
slumber. 

Holding  up  a  little  bottle,  which  she  drew  from  her  pocket, 
the  woman  exclaimed,  "  Well,  that's  done  me  good  service 
— there's  no  fear  now."  She  turned  and  walked  to  the  bed 
where  the  dead  lay,  and  with  a  pitiless  look,  she  muttered, 
"  She's  gone  at  last."  She  gazed  at  the  pale  face,  with  an 
expression  of  intense  curiosity,  as  if  closely  scanning  the 
form  and  expression  of  the  still  features.  "  And  she  was  so 
beautiful  once,  they  said.  She  is  gone,  and  I  am  here, 
there's  grey  in  her  hair,  and  she  is  young  too,  and  he  must 
have  loved  her — I  wish,  I  wish,"  and  the  woman  clenched 
her  hands,  and  then  pressing  her  forehead  closely,  as  if 
forcing  back  some  wild,  deadly  thought,  she  said,  "  I  wish 


NEPENTHE.  33 

jti 

she  never,  never  had  been  born — and  then  what  might  I 
have  been." 

She  walked  back  and  forth  an  hour,  and  then,  placing  the 
light  on  the  bureau,  she  cautiously  opened  the  upper  drawer, 
and  first  looking  back  to  see  if  she  had  disturbed  the  sleep 
ing  child,  examined  carefully  each  drawer. 

She  found  in  one  corner  of  the  lowest  a  box  containing 
an  old  package  tied  up  with  faded  blue  ribbon — she  turned 
over  some  of  the  papers,  as  if  seeking  for  something,  and 
nodding  her  head  as  if  satisfied,  she  read  them  all,  and  then 
tied  them  up  very  carefully,  all  but  one  paper,  and  putting 
the  package  in  the  pocket  which  she   wore   tied   round  her 
waist,  under  the  skirt  of  her  dress  ;  this  one  paper  she  hid 
in  the  folds  of  her  waist,  which  was  buttoned  up  to  her  chin. 
She  replaced  the  articles  in  the  bureau,  putting  up  each  thing 
as  she  found  it ;  then  gazing  again  at  the   dead   woman,   she 
took  from  her  pocket  a  small  knife,  and  cut  from  the  neck  a 
little   locket,   hidden   under    the   folds   of  the  night-dress. 
Holding  it  tightly  in  one  hand,  and  half  covering  it,  with  the 
other,  she  kissed  it  over  and  over  again  passionately,   and 
tried  to  stifle  the  great  sobs  that   would  struggle  for  utter 
ance.     She  looked  wistfully  at  a  diamond  ring,  glistening  on 
the  emaciated  left  hand,  and  shook  her  head,   saying,    "  Not 
that !  no,  not  that !"  She  gazed  at  the  locket  again  and  again, 
till  an  expression  of  quiet   tenderness    stole   over   her  face, 
but  forcing  it  back,  she  looked  up  and  a  superstitious   fear 
came  over  her,  till  she  thought  she  saw  a  smile  on  the   cold 
lips. 

"  Mother,"  said  a  low  voice,  "  Mother,  come  here."  The 
woman  looked  uneasily  around,  but  the  child  had  only 
spoken  ia  her  sleep — the  sleeper  woke  not,  and  noiselessly 
the  woman  stole  away ;  and  as  the  midnight  moon  shone 
down  full  on  her  resolute  face,  there  were  great  tears  roll 
ing  down  those  wan  cheeks — tears  that  had  been  frozen  up 
for  thirteen  weary  years. 

Only  the  next  afternoon  a  head  was  stretched  out  of  an 
attic  window  in  the  next  block,  and  a  voice  exclaimed,  "  Look 
quick,  Bridget,  there  comes  a  funeral." 

"  Why  no,  Margaret !  that's  not  a  funeral — there's  only  a 
coffin  in  a  wagon,  and  a  girl  sitting  by  it.  Sec,  there  are  no 
carriages.  Well !"  added  she,  emphatically,  "  as  long  as  I 
live  I'll  not  have  such  a  funeral  as  that." 

2* 


34  NEPENTHE. 

The  mother  and  child  were  taking  their  last  journey  to 
gether,  they  were  going  through  beautiful  Greenwood,  for 
the  undertaker  had  received-  orders,  in  a  letter  enclosing 
money  and  directions,  to  bury  the  dead  in  that  spot. 

Had  Nepenthe  raised  her  head,  as  she  came  out  of  the 
gate,  she  might  have  seen  the  tall  form  of  the  watcher,  as 
she  stood  near  the  door  of  the  nearest  marble  shop,  mutter 
ing,  "  Well,  she  is  dead,  she  is  buried.  It  is  as  well,  after  al1. 
There  isn't  room  enough  in  this  world  for  her  and  for  me. 
The  air  choked  me,  while  she  breathed  it.  But  there  goes  the 
undertaker,"  she  added  in  a  whisper.  "  Yes,  yes,  he  may 
well  be  called  undertaker,  for  he  takes  us  all  under." 

The  woman  had  a  card  in  her  hand,  it  was — 

"  TRAP,  FOGG  &  CRAFT." 

"  Well,"  said  she,  going  on  her  way,  "  I've  business 
enough  for  them  now." 

Though  Mrs.  Stuart  had  been  some  time  ill,  her  death 
was  sudden  and  unexpected  ;  so  much  so,  that  there  was  a 
post  mortem  examination.  She  was  heard  to  exclaim  the 
morning  of  her  death,  that  her  "  heart  was  breaking."  The 
examination  proved  the  correctness  of  her  feelings. 

The  tremendous  propulsion  of  the  blood,  consequent  upon 
some  violent  nervous  shock  forced  the  powerful  muscular 
tissues  asunder,  and  life  was  at  an  end.  Her  heart  had 
literally  burst  open. 

Some  months  after  Mrs.  Stuart's  death  a  stranger  passing 
through  one  of  the  sylvan  dells  in  beautiful  Greenwood, 
stopped  to  read  this  one  word  plainly  carved  upon  a  new 
marble  slab  over  a  not  yet  grass-grown  grave — 

"CAROLINE." 

A  lady  elegantly  dressed,  stood  a  long  time  by  the  grave, 
one  pleasant  morning,  gazing  intently^t  the  simple  inscrip 
tion  ;  she  turned  away,  saying  to  herself,  "  She  can  never  be 
identified,  from  that  stone  or  its  inscription.  No  man 
shall  know  where  Caroline  Stuart  sleeps  '  after  life's  fitful 
fever.'  She  shall  sleep  well  and  undisturbed." 

The  lady  was  too  much  absorbed  in  thought,  to  notice 
that  a  card  had  fallen  from  her  half  open  card  case,  and 


NEPENTHE.  35 

was  lying  on  the  ground.     An  old  gentleman  passing  by  a 
few  moments  after,  picked  up  and  read — 

"  MRS.  CLARA  ELLIOTT, 

"  Fifth  Avenue, 
11  Thursdays" 

With  scornful  eye,  firm  step,  and  haughty  bearing,  the 
lady  passed  out  of  the  portals  of  Greenwood,  and  took  her 
seat  by  the  side  of  a  beautiful  child,  who  was  waiting  in  a 
carriage  outside  for  her  mother.  The  beautiful  child  was  a 
perfect  copy  of  the  beautiful  woman. 

There  was  a  gentleman  in  the  carriage,  and  no  one  who 
had  once  seen  him  could  mistake  him  for  anybody  else.  It 
was  Mr.  John  Trap,  smiling  and  talking  in  his  low  tones,  as 
plausible  as  ever. 


CHAPTER    Y. 

MRS.  JOHN  PRIDEFIT'S  MURMURS,  PERAMBULATIONS,  CHARITIES. 

"  If  I  have  money,  I  buy  books  ;  if  I  have  any  left.  I  buv  food  and 
clothes."  EBASMUS. 

MRS.  JOHN  PRIDEFIT  was  trying  to  decide  whether  a 
Tyrian  purple,  or  a  gay  plaid  ribbon  would  look  the  best  on 
her  new  spring  bonnet. 

She  sat  quietly  thinking,  it  was  very  still  outside — nothing 
but  the  oyster  man's  most  melancholy  cry,  prolonged  and 
doleful,  broke  the  unusual  stillness  of  the  night.  "  That 
man's  oysters  must  have  a  solemn  taste,"  thought  she,  as 
laying  down  the  ribbon,  and  rocking  impatiently  back  and 
forth,  she  broke  out  into  an  emphatic  "  Oh  !  dear  !  ho, 
hum  !" 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  ?"  said  Mr.  Pridefit  looking 
up  from  his  evening  paper,  which  he  had  been  reading  about 
ten  minutes,  "  is  your  neuralgia  worse  ?" 

"I  do  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit,  "  that  for  one  month  at 
least,  there  could  be  no  newspapers." 


36  NEPENTHE. 

Every  woman  finds  out  after  marriage,  that  a  man's  first 
love  was  his  newspaper. 

"  Mr.  Pridefit,  you  read  when  you  are  sick,  you  read  when 
you  are  well,  you  read  before  breakfast  and  after  breakfast, 
you  read  at  dinner,  you  read  in  the  cars.  I'd  like  to  know 
when  can  I  find  you  without  a  paper  ;  every  mortal  man 
must  have  a  paper  in  his  hat,  or  in  his  vest  or  coat  pocket ; 
and  the  moment  he  sits  down,  there  is  his  paper,  like  a 
'shadow  before  him.  You're  always  waiting  for  the  last  of 
the  Tribunes,  the  newest  Herald  or  the  latest  Times.  I'd 
like  to  see  the  last  of  these  Tribunes,  and  I  wish  some  final 
Herald  would  announce  that  the  dull  Times  were  over,  and 
that  the  last  of  Tribunes  was  about  to  appear.  You  say  it 
is  in  the  way  of  business,  to  keep  up  with  affairs — there  are 
things  of  local  interest,  and  general  importance,  national 
politics,  latest  intelligence  by  telegraph,  market,  elections, 
commercial  affairs,  bank  dividends,  public  needs,  quack 
medicines,  police  reports,  of  all  things  these  police  reports. 
Michael  kills  Patrick  one  day,  and  then  the  next  day,  some 
other  Patrick  kills  Michael.  Then  there's  a  supplement  to 
the  Times,  a  journal  extra,  which  men  must  say  they've 
read,  of  course.  Handsome  books  with  fashion-plates  or 
stories,  are  so  much  more  attractive  to  look  at  than  this  end 
less  black  and  white.  Then  they  don't  litter  up  the  house 
so.  The  week  you  were  away,  John,  I  thought  it  was  a  pity 
for  the  paper  to  come  every  day,  and  no  body  to  read  it — 
so  one  rainy  morning,  I  resolved  to  read  one  all  through  for 
once,  and  find  out  what  was  this  wonderful  charm.  1  read 
every  thing,  even  to  the  general  markets.  I  can't  see  for 
my  life,  how  whiskey  was  quiet  yesterday,  and  steady  to 
day  ;  that  Timothy  was  firm  I  understand  ;  (that  must  mean 
Timothy  Titus,  he's  the  firmest  ma'n  in  town  I  ever  saw,) 
and  that  tallow  was  flat,  that  is  why  the  candles  run  down 
so  in  the  kitchen  last  night.  I  can  see  how  sugar  is  quiet 
*.  with  a  downward  tendency — but  how  rice  is  more  animated, 
and  cotton  dull — how  Scotch  pig  is  quiet,  I  can't  tell.  It  must 
be  an  uncommonly  taciturn  pig,  and  then  Jiow  does  Marsh 
dry  Caloric  for  three  dollars  and  fifty  cents  ?  I  don't  under 
stand  these  general  markets.  I  can't  go  into  a  car,  but  my 
ears  are  stunned  with  the  bedlam  cries  of  noisy  urchins 
screeching  out,  '  Eagle,  one  cent,'  '  Morning  Herald,'  or 
1  Herald,'  or  '  Weekly  Tribune.'  Won't  these  newspapers 


NEPENTHE.  37 

ever  get  out  of  fashion  ?  Why,  yesterday  morning  when  I 
rode  down  with  you,  John,  you  actually  had  three  sticking 
out  of  your  pocket,  and  were  reading  one  besides.  You 
never  said  a  word  to  me  the  whole  way,  and  I  kept  nudging 
you  to  look  at  Miss  Gouge's  new  brown  bonnet.  A  fan  is  a 
good  thing  for  a  lady  to  flirt  behind,  and  a  paper  is  useful  in 
one  way  to  a  gentleman.  When  you  are  riding  home  at 
night,  tired,  and  get  nicely  fixed  in  a  good  seat,  if  you  are 
deeply  absorbed  in  some  leading  article  in  the  paper  before 
you,  why,  you  need  not  see  every  lady  who  is  standing  up 
in  the  car,  glancing  round  for  some  gentleman's  seat !  I 
have  seen  such  unconscious  gentlemen.  It  is  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  to  see  all  the  Irish  girls  with  big  baskets,  and  the 
fat  colored  women  with  their  bundles!  and  the  old  ladies 
with  their  bags  ;  then,  when  you  are  not  reading  the  paper 
in  the  evening,  you  are  off  attending  some  '  board  meeting.' 
I  wonder  what  good  ail  these  board  meetings  do  ;  so  far  as  I 
can  find  out,  they  might  as  well  be  so  many  boards  laid  to 
gether,  for  any  practical  purpose.  Why,  men  can't  do  any 
thing  for  an  object,  but  they  must  have  a  committee  to  draw  up 
resolutions  about  it,  and  then  a  committee  to  discuss  the  res 
olutions  ;  and  then  to  consummate  their  wise  plans,  they  get 
up  these  board  meetings  !  and  form,  perhaps,  some  charita 
ble  association  just  to  have  great  dinners  occasionally,  and 
see  their  names  in  the  paper.  If  you  go  to  them  with  any 
application  tfor  some  individual's  relief,  they'll  be  sure  to 
say  that  that  particular  case  doesn't  come  within  their  organ 
ization." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Pridefit,"  said  her  husband,  resignedly  lay 
ing  down  his  paper,  "  you  shall  have  a  hearing  ;  you  can  be 
the  reporter  for  the  evening." 

Mrs  Pridefit  had  been  rocking  restlessly  back  and  forth, 
as  if  anxious  to  reveal  some  newly-gathered  information. 
"  Where  do  you  think  I've  been  to-day,  John  ?"  said  she. 

"  At  Stewart's  or  Madame  Flummery's,  looking  at  fash 
ions." 

"  No  such  thing,  John,  I've  not  looked  at  a  bonnet,  a 
shawl,  or  a  dress  ;  but  I  never  walked  so  much  in  a  day  in 
my  life.  I  went  up  Broadway  and  down  Broadway,  and 
across  Broadway,  and  around  Broadway  ;  through  the  ave 
nues  and  over  the  squares.  I  visited  all  the  Intelligence 
Offices,  the  Bible  House,  and  the  Home  for  the  Friendless. 


38  NEPENTHE. 

I  looked  in  the  Times  and  the  Herald  at  '  the  wants ; 
climbed  up  back  stairs  in  the  Bowery,  and  explored  base 
ments  in  Madison  and  Pearl  streets.  I've  seen  English, 
Scotch,  German  and  Irish  of  all  ages,  sizes  and  descriptions. 
None  suited  me.  All  were  respectable,  and  could  do  all  kinds 
of  work  ;  and  accustomed  to  have  ten  dollars  a  month,  but 
they  would  come  to  me  for  eight.  Passing  up  Eighth  ave 
nue,  I  saw  some  fine  sugar  almonds  in  a  small  toy  shop."  : 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Pridefit,  knowing  her  failing  in 
that  line,  "  you  laid  in  a  quantity." 

"  Yes,  there's  a  pound  to  keep  you  good  natured  while  you 
listen,"  said  she,  handing  him  a  small  package. 

Sugar  almonds  were  the  only  thing  in  the  confectioner's 
line  Mr.  Pridefit  cared  any  thing  about. 

"  Well,  well !"  said  Mr.  Pridefit,  looking  wistfully  at  the 
evening  paper  which  had  fresh  news  from  England,  lying 
on  the  table  before  him — "  What  have  the  almonds  got  to  do 
with  the  girl  ?" 

"  You  always  talk  like  a  lawyer,  John.  You  want  me  to 
state  the  bare  facts  of  the  case,  just  as  if  I  were  a  witness 
on  the  stand,  and  you  cross-questioning  me.  You've  been 
away  all  day.  I  think  you  might  have  a  few  moment's 
patience  for  once,  and  let  me  tell  my  story  according  to  the 
best  of  my  knowledge,  information  and  belief." 

"  Well,  go  on  and  state  your  case,  and  swear  to  it,  too, 
if  you've  a  mind  to." 

"  As  I  was  turning  to  go  out  of  the  shop,"  said  Mrs. 
Pridefit,  I  happened  to  see  on  one  of  the  shelves,  some  of 
those  comical  little  Quaker  pin-cushions,  like  the  one  you 
saw  on  Mrs.  Trap's  dressing  table,  which  you  admired  so 
much.  That  was  the  first  I  ever  saw,  and  I've  wanted  one 
ever  since.  There  were  only  three  left.  The  woman  said 
the  last  basket  came  in  last  week,  and  she  couldn't  get  any 
more,  as  the  lady  who  made  them  had  died  a  few  days 
since.  While  I  was  deciding  which  one  to  take,  the  one 
with  white,  drab,  or  black  bonnet,  a  woman  came  in. 

"  '  Susan,"  said  the  toy  woman,  '  have  you  found  a  place 
for  the  girl  yet  ?' 

"  '  No,'  replied  the  woman,  '  she's  a  nice  girl,  and  willing 
though  she  is  small,  and  she  grieves  so  much  after  her 
mother.  She  was  in  a  swoon-like  most  of  the  time  for  a 
week  after  she  died.  Her  mother  was  an  industrious  smart 


NEPENTHE.  39 

Woman,  and  she  made  hundreds  of  those  Quakers  for  me  to 
sell.  She  sat  up  in  bed  as  long  as  she  could  hold  up  her 
head  and  sew.  I  didn't  think  she  would  die  so  suddenly. 
She  was  gone  just  in  a  minute,  as  if  somebody  had  killed 
her.  If  I  hadn't  had  so  many  troubles  of  my  own,  I  should 
have  seen  her  oftener  ;  but  with  the  children  and  William 
to  worry  me,  I  did  not  do  much  for  her;  but  I  wish  I 
had  carried  her  a  little  nourishment  that  morning 
she  died,  it  might  have  comforted  her  to  think  some  body 
thought  of  her  ;  but  it  can't  be  helped  now  ,'  (and  the  woman 
whispered  so  low  I  could  hardly  hear  her  ;  but  you  know  I 
have  uncommon  good  ears,  John.)  '  William  carried  on  so 
that  morning,  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  about.  I  had  to 
hide  the  children  for  fear  he  would  kill  them.  He  don't 
get  drunk  so  often  as  he  used  to  ;  but  when  he  is  drunk,  he 
goes  on  like  a  crazy  man.  I  have  to  bear  the  brunt  of  it 
myself,  to  keep  him  off  of  the  children  :'  and  as  the  woman 
turned  her  head,  I  could  see  a  fresh  bruise  on  her  forehead. 
'  But,'  continued  the  woman,  '  I  took  the  girl  home  with  me — 
what  else  could  I  do  ?  There  was  no  one  belonging  to  her 
any  where  around,  as  I  know  of,  and  I  couldn't  let  her 
starve.  I've  kept  her  two  weeks,  and  it  does  the  children 
good  to  have  her  around — she  acts  like  a  little  angel  dropped 
down.  I'd  keep  her  until  somebody  claimed  her,  if  I  had 
to  work  my  fingers  off  to  do  it — but  William  has  carried  on 
so  since  she  came,  I'm  afraid  he  will  kill  her  if  I  keep  her ; 
but  she  don't  cost  him  any  thing,  for  he  never  brings  a  cent 
to  the  house — he  drinks  up  all  his  earnings  and  most  of 
mine,  too.  Oh,  dear  !'  and  the  woman  actually  sobbed.  '  I 
do  believe  I  could  do  a  little  good  in  the  world  if  my  hus 
band  would  let  me.' 

"  '  Susan,'  said  Nellie,  for  the  toy  woman's  name  was 
Nellie,  as  they  went  out  together  into  a  little  room  next  to 
the  store,  '  people  used  to  call  you  smart,  but  now  all  the 
smart  I  can  see,  is  you  take  your  husband's  part.' 

"  '  I  was  sure,'  said  Susan,  '  when  I  was  a  girl,  that  if  / 
ever  had  a  husband,  he  would  kindly  love,  fondly  cherish, 
and  tenderly  protect  me,  I  would  make  him  as  happy  as  I 
could,  by  kind  words,  and  soothing  and  sharing  his  trou 
bles  and  bearing  with  his  faults.  His  honor,  reputation, 
and  even  his  mistakes,  should  be  safe  in  my  hands.  I  see 
his  faults  as  plainly  as  you  do,  but  I  believe  it  is  a  wife's 


40  NEPENTHE. 

sacred  duty  not  to  speak  of  her  husband's  faults,  not  to  re 
prove  or  chide  them  before  others.  I  may  have  done 
wrong  in  alluding  to  them,  even  to  you,  but  I  shouldn't  if 
you  hadn't  seen  him  at  all  times  and  didn't  know  about  it 
yourself.  But  if  I  could  hide  every  fault  from  human  eyes 
I  would.  I  feel  more  grieved  and  disgraced  by  any  error 
of  his,  than  if  I  had  been  doing  wrong  myself.  I  would 
willingly  die  if  my  death  could  restore  him  to  his  original 
manly  dignity  and  integrity.  I  loved  him  once — that  love 
is  a  broken  dream — like  a  plucked,  withered  rosebud,  it 
lies  in  my  heart ;  the  stem  is  broken,  but  if  you  should  tear 
my  heart  out,  you  couldn't  uproot  the  old  love — the  love 
lies  bleeding.  There'll  be  no  more  beautiful  flowers,  no 
delightful  perfume,  but  the  root  is  there,  down  deep  in  the 
heart.  Marriage  is  a  fearful  partnership  ;  if  one  party  fails 
to  fulfill  his  obligations,  the  responsibility  still  rests  on  the 
other,  '  for  better  or  for  worse.'  The  beautiful  bridal 
wreath  may  fade  away  in  a  martyr's  crown  of  thorns  ;  it  may 
prove  only  an  asphodel  on  the  heart's  early  grave,  or  a 
sweet  amaranth  in  constancy's  sunshine.' 

"  '  Yes,  yes,'  said  Nelly,  breaking  in  and  interrupting 
Susan,  '  but  I  don't  like  to  see  a  delicate  and  beautiful  moss 
rose  planted  right  out  in  the  middle  of  the  dusty  street,  and 
left  alone  to  battle  with  wind  and  storm,  or  for  the  foot  of 
passing  scorn  to  tread  upon,  when  it  might  have  filled  a 
whole  arbor  with  fragrance,  or  twined  around  some  manly 
heart  of  oak.  But  I  suppose  that's  what  you  call  poetical, 
and  I  don't  feel  poetical ;  I  feel  in  sober  earnest.' 

"  '  I  have  given  my  heart  once,'  said  Susan,  '  and  I  can 
never  take  it  back.  It  may  burn,  or  starve,  or  freeze,  but 
it  must  bide  life's  storm.' 

"  '  Susan,  sister  Susan,'  said  Nelly,  '  I  wouldn't  live  with 
that  man  another  day.  I'd  see  myself  in  Greenland  before 
I'd  slave  myself  to  death  for  a  good-for-nothing  drunken 
husband.' 

"  '  I  took  him  for  better  or  worse,'  said  Susan,  as  solemn 
as  if  she  was  preaching,  '  and  I  will  stand  by  him  till  the 
last.  I  must  not  cross  his  will,  when  I  can  help  it.  The 
girl  must  have  a  place.  I  believe  she's  got  the  same  grace 
in  her  heart  her  mother  had  before  her.  Any  budy  to  see 
her  would  know  she  was  a  liltle  Christian.  She'll  bear  any 
thing  God  puts  upon  her.  She  goes  by  herself  and  reads 


NEPENTHE.  41 

that  little  Bible  her  mother  gave  her  until  my  heart  aches. 
But  in  this  world  we  can't  all  stop  for  feelings — we've  got 
to  live.  I've  laid  awake  night  after  night  thinking  about  it, 
but  she's  got  to  go,  and  to-morrow  ; — that  I  promised  Wil 
liam  to-day,  when  he  caught  up  that  stick  of  wood  ~nd  gave 
me  this  bruise — my  head  aches  so  I  have  been  dizzy  ever 
since — but  it  is  hard  to  know  what  is  right,  sometimes.' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  the  toy  woman,  'if  you  have  a  good-for-nothing 
husband  to  order  you  around.  I'd  pitch  him  down  stairs, 
or  I'd  let  him  fall  down  any  how  some  dark  night,  instead  of 
breaking  my  back  helping  the  drunken  scamp  up.  I'd  find 
out  what  was  right  and  I'd  do  it,  too.  Why,  Susan,  you've 
saved  his  useless  life  many  times  when  he  might  just  as  well 
and  a  great  deal  better  been  run  over  or  drowned.  I'd 
leave  him  to  Providence  and  himself  a  while,  instead  of 
watching  him  as  careful  as  if  he  were  all  diamonds  and  gold.' 

"  '  No  drunkard  shall  inherit  the  kingdom  of  Heaven,' 
said  Susan,  slowly  and  with  a  kind  of  choked  voice.  '  I 
could  not  see  him  die  so. — And  then  I  took  him  for  better 
or  for  worse.' 

"  '  I'd  give  him  worse,'  said  Nelly,  indignantly,  '  if  I 
should  see  him  abuse  you.  I'd  give  him  a  good  mauling  with 
poker  or  broomstick.  Why  should  he  have  all  the  better 
and  you  all  the  worse.  You  carry  to  a  wonderful  extent 
your  ideas  of  love's  divine  self-abnegation.  Why,  you  had 
as  fine  offers  as  any  girl  in  the  land.  There's  not  a  man  in  the 
world  too  good  for  you.  Judge  Corlette  has  never  married 
or  loved  since  you  refused  him.  You  are  only  twenty-eight 
years  old,  with  your  grey  hair,  pale  face  and  thin  cheeks, 
your  hands  browned  from  toil  and  exposure.  I  never  saw 
such  a  hand  as  yours  was  once.  Bensonio  copied  it  as  a 
model  hand,'  and  the  toy  woman  talked  till  the  tears  ran  down 
her  cheeks — '  why,  if  a  man  had  married  you,  and  carried 
you  all  the  way  through  this  world  and  not  let  you  walked 
at  all  we  girls  wouldn't  have  thought  it  too  much,  he'd  only 
been  carrying  an  angel.  I  never  was  a  lady,  I  never  was  deli 
cate,  beautiful  and  refined,  I  was  made  for  work,  and  endur 
ance,  and  it  suits  me,  but  you,  mother  always  thought  noth 
ing  good  enough  for  you.' 

"  '  That  is  all  over  now,'  said  Susan  mournfully,  coming 
put  into  the  shop  again.  I  must  get  a  place  for  the  girl  to 
day.'  Just  then,  John,"  continued  Mrs,  Pridefit,  "I  happened 


42  NEPENTHE. 

to  think  what  Charity  Gouge  said  about  getting  so  much 
more  out  of  a  young  girl  than  an  old  one,  so  I  just  sent  for 
that  girl  and  engaged  her  to  come  to-morrow." 

"What's  her  name?"  said  Mr.  Pridefit.  "Bridget? 
They  are  all  Bridgets." 

"  No,  John  ;  why  don't  you  pay  attention  ?  Didn't  I  tell 
you  she  wasn't  an  Irish  girl  ?  Her  name  is  Nepenthe — 
Nepenthe  Stuart.  It  is  a  pity  she  has  such  an  unusual 
name." 

"  Nepenthe,  Nepenthe,"  said  Mr.  Pridefit.  "  I  wonder 
how  the  girl  got  that  name.  That  is  rather  an  uncommon 
name,  but  I  suppose  you'll  like  it,  you'll  think  it  stylish, — 
you  like  every  thing  stylish  ;  and,"  he  added,  in  a  kind  of 
undertone,  "  I  hope  you'll  forget  all  your  old  troubles  now 
with  Nepenthe  in  the  kitchen." 

Mrs.  Pridefit  looked  puzzled  as  she  said  "  Why,  you 
know,  John,  I  never  wanted  a  stylish  girl."  She  didn't  quite 
understand  her  husband's  last  remark.  She  thought  he  was 
quizzing  her,  so  she  pretended  not  to  notice  it. 

"  John,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit  the  next  night,  after  Nepenthe 
had  been  installed  in  her  new  post  a  day — Mr.  Pridefit  was 
just  closing  his  eyes — "  John,"  said  she,  "  I  think  I  have 
done  well  this  time.  Nepenthe  is  a  willing  girl ;  she'll  do 
many  things  a  large  girl  wouldn't.  She'll  never  answer 
back.  Then  she's  never  lived  out,  and  sho  never  says  she's 
tired,  and  goes  muttering  round  the  house.  She  has  no 
precedents  to  establish,  no  "  cousins,"  to  come  and  visit  her. 
I  don't  believe  she  has  a  relative  in  the  country,  and  that's 
worth  every  thing.  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  how  many 
mothers  they  have  in  Ireland.  You  know  Bridget  wasn't 
accustomed  to  do  this,  and  wouldn't  do  that.  New  Year's  day 
she  had  as  many  calls  as  I  had.  I'll  begin  with  Nepenthe 
and  not  favor  her ;  she  shan't  burn  much  kindling  wood, 
waste  so  much  soap,  and  give  away  so  much  tea,  as  Bridget 
did.  I  found  bundles  of  tea,  sugar,  and  coffee,  hidden  away 
in  her  carpet-bag,  and  she  always  saved  the  best  ear  of  corn, 
and  the  sweet-bread  of  veal  in  the  oven  for  heiself.  This 
Nepenthe'll  black  your  boots  for  you,  too,  I  guess,  John." 

"  What  wages  do  you  give  her  ?" 

"  I  sha'n't  pay  her  any  thing  now.  I'm  going  to  clothe  her, 
you  know.  I  can  fix  up  the  old  things  I  have  got  for  her." 


NEPENTHE.  43 

"  Well,"  said  John,  sleepily,  "  I  hope  we'll  hear  no  more 
about  girls;  it  is  an  awful  stale  subject  of  conversation." 

"  John  !"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit,  waking  up  her  husband  who 
was  just  getting  into  a  man's  profound  slumber,  "  I'd  tell 
you  something  else,  if  I  thought  you  wouldn't  laugh  at,  or 
scold  me  ;  however,  I  guess  I'll  keep  it  to  myself." 

Mr.  Pridefit  promised  to  listen  without  reproof,  ridicule 
or  exhortation  ;  so  Mrs.  Pridefit  went  on. 

"  I  saw  that  elegant  Mrs.  Elliott  to-day — I'd  give  any 
thing  to  go  to  one  of  her  receptions — and  I  met  Mrs.  Brown 
(you  know  I  have  not  seen  her  since  she  lived  in  Fifth  ave 
nue,  in  that  splendid  house,  they  say  it  is  a  perfect  palace,) 
well,  she  treated  me  cordially  as  ever— ^invited  me  to  co 
operate  with  her  in  a  little  deed  of  charity.  Of  course  I 
was  willing  to  write  Mrs.  John  Pridefit's  name  under  Mrs. 
Theophilus  Brown's.  It  is  policy  for  you  and  I  both, 
John,  to  be  a  little  benevolent.  Then  who  knows  but  you 
may  get  all  Mr.  Brown's  business  yet ;  he'd  be  a  first  rate 
client.  I  mean  to  cultivate  Mrs.  Brown's  acquaintance. 
Are  you  asleep,  John  ?  Do  you  hear  ?" 

"Yes,  yes.     I  hear — go  on." 

"  A  poor  woman  called  on  Mrs.  Brown  for  some  money 
She  had  a  large  family — the  father  had  died  suddenly,  and 
they  had  no  means  to  buy  a  shroud  or  coffin.  We  concluded 
we  would  buy  a  coffin  ourselves  and  send  it  there,  and  not 
furnish  means  as  we  first  intended.  Some  time  after  send 
ing  the  coffin,  we  called  to  see  the  afflicted  family.  We 
knocked,  and  after  some  moving  about  in  the  room,  we  were 
admitted.  We  saw  the  man  in  the  coffin,  looking  not  much 
emaciated,  probably  on  account  of  his  sudden  death.  We 
only  stopped  a  few  moments.  Just  as  we  left  the  house, 
Mrs.  Brown  missed  her  elegant  mouchoir,  so  we  went  back 
to  the  house  and  walked  in  quietly  without  knocking,  and 
there  the  man  sat  in  his  coffin  with  Mrs.  Brown's  mouchoir 
in  his  hands  !" 

"  'Tisn't  every  body  that  can  afford  to  have  his  coffin  laid 
in  beforehand,"  said  Mr.  Pridefit.  "  I  hope  it  suited  him. 
How  much  did  you  contribute  towards  this  most  charitable 
purpose,  Jane  ?" 

"  Five  dollars,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit,  deliberately,  "  I  could 
not  do  less.  Mrs.  Brown  was  so  very  liberal,  she  furnished 
the  shroud,  too.  I  don't  know  how  much  money  she  gave — 


44  NEPENTHE. 

she  thought  I  would  give  'about  eight  dollars.  She  gave  her 
1  services  '  you  know." 

"  Services  !"  said  Mr.  Pridefit,  contemptuously. 

"  John,  you  needn't  laugh  about  services.  I  know  you 
think  there  are  no  services  but  lawyer's  that  ought  to  bring 
money.  1  wonder  how  you'd  get  along  without  services." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Pridefit,  my  services  are  very  different  from 
Mrs.  Brown's." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  they  are.  You  sit  in  your  office  and 
talk  half  an  hour  to  a  man  about  some  case  of  distress  war 
rant,  and  ask  him  ten  dollars  for  it,  and  Mrs.  Brown  will 
talk  all  day  long  about  some  case  of  real  distress,  and  get 
nothing  for  it — that's  the  difference  ;  and  then  she  walks 
miles  and  miles.  She  said  to-day  she  was  tired  out,  and  to 
morrow  she's  going  all  around  again,  to  get  subscriptions,  to 
get  up  a  fair  to  pay  off  the  church  debt," 

"  Yes,  I  know,  and  wants  you  to  make  a  lot  of  ice  creams 
and  jellies.  She'll  give  her  services." 

"  You  know,  John,  every  body  must  do  something  for  the 
demands  of  charity.  I  am  sure  I  am  very  economical.  I 
save  all  I  can.  I  shall  make  that  set  of  sable  do  this  win 
ter,  and  for  this  fall  1  had  no  new  bonnet." 

"  Ah  !  yes  !"  said  John,  laughing,  "  but  you  sent  your 
last  year's  bonnet  to  Madame  Flummery's.  She  gave  it  on 
ly  a  professional  twitch,  a  professional  glance,  put  in  inside 
n'xins  and  strings,  and  sends  me  in  her  bill  of  eight  dollars, 
when  the  whole  extra  fixings  wouldn't  cost  two.  She  values 
her  services  highly,  you  see." 

"  Well,  John,  I  only  paid  six  dollars  for  all  the  material 
for  my  new  morning  dress." 

"  Yes,  that  was  reasonable  ;  but  your  dress-maker  sent 
me  in  her  bill,  yesterday  ;  a  bill  of  eight  dollars  for  her  ser 
vices  in  making  it.  But  I  suppose  she  furnished  the  sewing 
silk  as  you  always  say,  and  that  must  be  French  silk,  too. 
I  can't  see  but  Mrs.  Douglas's  dresses  fit  just  as  handsome 
ly,  and  she  makes  them  herself." 

"  John,  you  men  don't  know  any  thing  about  these  mat 
ters.  It  s  every  thing  to  have  a  French  fit,  and  Madam 
Fixeria  says  my  figure  is  so  stylish  it  ought  to  have  the 
best  fit,  and  you  know,  John,  you  pay  thirty-six  dollars  a 
dozen  for  your  shirts,  and  they  can't  cost  any  thing  like 
that.  You  care  so  much  about  the  fit,  and  twenty  dollars 


NEPENTHE.  45 

for  that  Imperial  Dictionary — that  was  really  extravagant 
Twenty  dollars  would  buy  so  many  nice  little  things  for  my 
etagere.  Why,  Webster's  dictionary  was  good  enough  for 
my  mother,  and  it  is  good  enough  for  me.  I  should  never 
think  of  paying  so  much  for  a  book.  There  are  ever  so 
many  things  I  should  think  of  buying  before  I  bought  that — 
and  then,  ten  precious  dollars  for  those  dull  quarterlies, 
with  those  long-winded  articles  about  assimilation  of  law,  or 
Prophetical  Literature  or  Tithe  Impropriation,  or  India 
Traditions,  or  Chineese  Aphorisms,  or  some  subject  or 
place  no  body  cares  any  thing  about." 

"  Well/'  said  Mr.  Pridefit,  without  noticing  his  wife's 
sage  criticisims,  "  I  hope  you  won't  give  any  thing  more  in 
charity  without  going  to  see  for  yonrself.  It  was  a  dastard 
ly  imposition,  and  although  that  man  escaped  the  grave,  he 
ought  to  be  consigned  to  the  Tombs  in  earnest." 

Next  door  to  Mrs*  Pridefit  lived  two  single  ladies. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  1"  said  Miss  Susan  Simpson  to  Maria, 
(Susan  was  the  elder,  and  the  spokesman  for  the  two,)  "  that 
Mrs.  Pridefit  would  cut  off  that  girl's  curls,  and  she  has,  all 
those  beautiful  ringlets  ;  she  has  bobbed  them  off  close,  and 
see,  her  feet  can  almost  walk  about  in  Mrs.  Pridefit's  gait 
ers.  I  say  it  is  a  sin  and  a  shame,"  added  Miss  Simpson, 
shaking  her  head  emphatically,  "  I'd  like  to  give  her  a  piece 
of  my  mind." 

"  1  think  you'd  find  she  had  mind  enough  of  her  own,  if 
you  should  undertake  to  give  her  a  piece  of  yours,"  said 
Maria,  quietly. 

Susan  and  Maria  got  along  finely  together — one  always 
kept  cool  when  the  other  was  out  of  patience.  "  And  do 
you  know,"  added  Maria,  "  that  Mrs.  Pridefit  told  Mrs. 
Venner  yesterday,  that  the  doctor  had  advised  her  to  take 
more  exercise  for  her  health— she  should  keep  but  one  girl 
for  a  while,  and  do  a  little  sweeping  herself,  though  M'1. 
Pridefit  was  much  opposed  to  it.  But  I  know  how  it  is. 
Mr.  Pridefit  bought  lots  of  Mr.  Trap  way  up  in  Fifth  avenue, 
expecting  to  sell  soon  at  great  advance.  Hard  times  came, 
and  he  couldn't  sell — I  know  he's  had  to  rake  and  scrape  to 
pay  for  those  lots,  and  Mr.  Trap  waits  for  no  body,  so 
they  are  obliged  to  economize.  They  came  over  here,  Mrs. 
Pridefit  says,  because  it  was  pleasauter  ;  but  you  know, 
Maria,  it  was  because  it  was  cheaper." 


46  NEPENTHE. 

"  Yes,  all  for  appearances,"  said  Miss  Maria,  dropping  off 
to  sleep. 

Venus  looked  down  clear  and  bright,  out  from  the  cold 
sky,  through  the  uncurtained  windows  of  Mrs.  Pridefit's 
attic  ;  furnished  with  a  broken  bowl,  a  cracked  pitcher,  and 
the  shattered  remains  of  an  ancient  looking-glass,  and  a 
table  with  three  trembling  legs.  The  night  wind  whistled 
through  the  broken  window  pane  over  the  old  feather  bed 
which  lay  on  the  miserably  corded  bedstead,  covered  by  a 
single,  faded,  tattered  spread,  ornamented  with  little  tufts 
of  escaping  cotton. 

As  Nepenthe  repeated,  "  Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven" 
— there  was  her  mother's  Bible  open  on  the  table — and  there 
— clear  and  bright  as  ever,  on  the  first  page  were  the  words, 
"  The  path  of  the  just  is  as  the  shining  light,  that  shineth 
more  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day,"  that  glorious  truth 
mounted  like  a  sky  lark  into  that  lonely  comfortless  attic, 
and  was  singing  its  consolation  song  as  Nepenthe  closed  her 
weary  eyes  with — "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,"  the  first 
rays  of  the  shining  light  were  dawning  in  her  soul.  The 
mild  stars  looked  serenely  down  on  that  young  head,  nestled 
on  the  single  straw  pillow,  the  glossy  brown  hair  waved  on 
a  cheek,  not  yet  paled  by  want. 

"  Mother !  mother !"  broke  out  from  the  slightly  parted 
lips  as  she  started  uneasily  in  her  sleep. 

Sleep  calmly,  Nepenthe,  on  thy  hard  pillow.  One  bet 
ter  than  thou  was  cradled  in  a  manger.  Let  the  mild  stars 
keep  watch,  and  "He  will  give  His  angels  charge  concerning 
thee." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

MRS.     JOHN    PRIDEFIT    IN    THE    DARK. 

"  Oh,  charming  realm  of  Nothingness, 

Which  Nowhere  can  be  found. 
While  Nothing  grandly  reigns  supreme 
O'er  Nobody  around  !" 

MRS.  JOHN  PRIDEFIT  was  in  fine  spirits.  She  had  pur 
chased  that  day,  an  elegant  coiffure,  mouchoir,  and"  brocade. 
They  were  all  bargains — she  had  saved  enough  on  these  ar 
ticles  to  pny  for  the  poor  man's  coffin.  It  was  evening — 
Mr.  Pridefit  had  gone  out  to  draw  up  a  will  for  a  sick  man. 


NEPENTHE.  47 

Mrs.  Pridefit  sat  with  her  satin  slippers  resting  on  the 
register — on  her  lap  lay  a  mouchoir  fragrant  with  millefleurs, 
and  the  last  new  novel  was  open  in  her  hand.  She  had 
drawn  up  the  table — adjusted  the  shade  over  the  gas — care 
fully  arranged  the  folds  in  her  dress,  and  fixed  herself  for  a 
good  comfortable  evening. 

She  was  becoming  deeply  interested  in  the  plot,  and 
weeping  over  the  pathetic  passages,  when  the  letters  began 
to  look  uncertain  and  dim — the  room  to  grow  dark,  and  in  a 
minute  more,  perfectly  dark.  Groping  her  way  to  the  bell, 
she  soon  summoned  Nepenthe,  whose  dishes  were  yet  un 
washed,  to  the  rescue. 

"  Nepenthe,  you  ought  to  keep  the  metre  covered  with  a 
flannel  blanket— you  have  put  me  to  a  very  great  inconveni 
ence  by  your  carelessness." 

"  I  did  cover  it,  ma'am,"  said  Nepenthe,  timidly. 

"  You  thought  you  did,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit,  sternly. 
"  Now  bring  me  some  sort  of  a  light  immediately — the  lamp 
you  use  in  the  kitchen  will  do." 

Nepenthe  soon  returned  with  a  large  junk  bottle,  from 
which  arose  a  dripping  tallow  candle. 

"  I  am  sorry,  ma'am,"  said  she,  "  but  Mr.  Pridefit  broke 
the  lamp  the  other  evening  in  the  cellar." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Airs.  Pridefit,  "  you  must  have  cracked 
it  then,  you  are  so  careless  " — (looking  dismally  at  the  new 
luminary,  shedding  a  ghastly  light  on  rosewood,  velvet,  and 
brocatel.)  "  You  saw  Mr.  Pridefit  fix  the  metre  the  other 
night — you  can  put  in  a  little  alcohol,  as  he  did." 

Half  stumbling  over  the  enormous  rat  which  guarded  the 
entrance,  by  the  aid  of  a  duplicate  bottle  luminary,  Nepen 
the  found  the  way  into  the  cellar,  and  without  shutting  off 
the  gas,  commenced  operations  to  illuminate  Mrs.  Pridefit's 
parlor  ;  knowing  as  much  about  gas  and  gas  metres  as  she 
did  of  the  climate,  soil  and  productions  of  Liberia. 

Into  the  first  orifice  she  opened,  she  poured  the  alcohol, 
while  some  of  the  gas  escaping  communicating  with  the 
blaze  of  the  candle,  which  holding  at  least  a  precarious  posi 
tion  in  the  old  bottle,  had  fallen  forward  into  the  valve. 

"  Fire  !  fire  !"  shrieked  Nepenthe,  at  the  top  of  her  voice, 
and  in  such  terrified  tones,  that  even  the  immovable  Mrs. 
Pridefit  hurried  down  stairs  as  quickly  as  possible. 

Shutting  off  the  gas,  she  poured  over  the  metre   and   Ne- 


48  NEPENTHE. 

penthe  the  contents  of  a  pail  of  water,  which  erst  her  deli 
cate  hands  could  never  have  lifted. 

"  How  could  you  be  so  stupid  ?"  said  she,  in  angry  tones. 
"  Didn't  you  know  enough  to  shut  off  the  gas  before  putting 
in  the  alcohol  ?  You  have  done  quite  enough  for  one  night 
— you  have  half  frightened  me  to  death — you  can  put  up 
the  alcohol,  and  wipe  the  floor  " — and  Mrs.  Pridefit  sailed 
away  up  into  her  sepulchral-looking  parlor,  illuminated  by 
the  poorest  and  darkest  of  tallow  candles — such  as  she  only 
allowed  in  her  kitchen. 

"Stupid  thing,"  thought  she,  "I'll  never  let  John  go 
away  again  until  I  am  sure  of  a  light — then  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Smoothers  may  call  this  evening  ;  and  how  dull  and  common 
every  thing  will  look,  with  nothing  but  this  old  candle.  My 
new  picture  and  this  dress  would  light  up  so  well.  I  de 
clare  I'd  like  to  pound  her.  No  light  in  the  hall,  either  ! 
How  provoking  ! 

Poor  Nepenthe  was  walking  the  floor  and  ringing  her 
hands,  both  of  which  were  badly  burned.  Poor  child,  it 
was  her  first  blister.  She  knew  not  that  a  little  sweet  oil 
from  the  castor,  could  have  eased  so  soon  her  agony,  and  so 
she  walked  up  and  down  the  kitchen  floor  the  whole  evening, 
moaning  with  pain. 

Mr.  Pridefit  came  home  late,  cold  and  tired,  and  bewilder 
ed  with  perplexing  suits,  claims  and  counter-claims.  Ne 
penthe's  swollen  eyes  and  hand  bound  up  in  an  old  handker 
chief,  attracted  his  attention.  As  a  matter  of  policy,  Mrs. 
Pridefit  was  induced  by  her  husband  to  bind  up  with  sweet 
oil  and  cotton,  the  poor  blistered  hand. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit,  as  she  was 
hunting  up  some  cotton,  "  to  get  a  dry  metre  ?  If  you  had 
taken  my  advice,  all  this  trouble  would  have  been  saved. 
1  wish  you  would  pay  some  attention  to  my  wishes.  What 
should  I  do  if  Dr.  Smoothers  were  to  call  now  ?  He  is  so 
fastidious  and  refined.  He  said  he  would  certainly  call  this 
week,  and  there's  only  one  more  evening  this  week  when  he 
will  be  at  liberty.  It  looks  as  if  we  were  nobody  and  nobody 
lived  here." 

There  was  a  great  hubbub  in  Mrs.  Pridefit's  house  for  a 
week  or  two.  She  had  kept  dinging  at  Mr.  Pridefit,  until 
he  had  promised  to  have  all  the  modern  "  conveniences"  in 
troduced.  So  up  stairs  and  down,  everything  was  remodelled. 


NEPENTHE.  49 

Nepenthe  was  just  getting  able  to  use  her  hands  again,  when 
Mrs.  Pridefit  went  into  the  kitchen  one  morning  to  give  her 
directions.  "  That's  the  hot  water,  and  that's  the  cold,"  said 
she,  putting  her  hand  first  on  one  faucet  and  then  on  the 
other,  "  and  there  is  the  boiler.  There  is  a  pump,  from 
which  the  boiler  is  supplied.  Up  in  the  bath  room  is  a  tank ; 
when  that  is  full  of  water  there  is  no  danger,  but  if  the  tank  is 
empty,  and  you  should  use  up  the  hot  water  in  the  boiler, 
the  boiler  would  burst." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said    Nepenthe,    timidly. 

"  Now,  every  morning,"  continued  Mrs.  Pridefit,  "  you 
must  pump  plenty  of  water  up  into  the  tank,  and  that  will  last 
you  all  day.  I  am  going  out  this  morning,  and  you  can  stand 
here  by  the  sink  and  scour  all  these  tins,"  and  Mrs.  Pridefit 
piled  up  pails,  pans,  and  tin-ware  of  all  sizes  and  descrip 
tion,  all  sadly  in  need  of  polishing. 

The  hours  moved  slowly  along — pints,  quarts,  and  two- 
quarts,  pails,  funnels,  and  graters,  were  all  assuming  un 
wonted  brilliancy  as  they  lay  on  the  table  awaiting  Mrs. 
Pridefit's  arrival.  "  Only  one  large  pail  more  to  scour," 
thought  Nepenthe,  as  she  bent  her  head  over,  and  tried  to 
remove  the  cover,  which  was  pressed  down  very  tight. 

There  was  a  sudden  whizz  and  report,  and  then,  over 
neck,  shoulder  and  arm,  came  the  hot  water,  as  Nepenthe 
rushed  frightened  back,  while  the  angry  water  hissing  and 
sissing,  burst  over  the  floor. 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit,  coming  in  just  then,  for  she 
had  taken  the  key  of  the  front  basement  door  with  her  and 
had  come  in  very  quietly,  as  she  thought  to  find  what  the 
girl  was  about,  she  might  be  up  stairs  rummaging.  "  Oh  !" 
paid  she,  shaking  Nepenthe  fiercely,  "you've  burst  the  boiler. 
There's  fiffy  more  dollars  gone.  This  is  the  way  you  abuse 
my  kindness.  Out  of  my  sight,  you  good-for-nothing  crea 
ture  ;  you  ought  to  be  in  prison."  Seizing  poker  and  tongs 
Mrs.  Pridefit,  then  rushed  to  the  range  and  with  all  the  skill, 
energy,  and  rapidity  of  which  she  was  capable,  poked  and 
scraped  and  raked  the  fire  out,  dashing  on  cold  water  to 
extinguish  the  last  lingering  glowing  coals.  "  Up  stairs  with 
you  !  Out  of  my  sight,  girl  !"  said  she,  giving  Nepenthe 
another  push  out  into  the  hall. 

With  face  flushed  with  fatigue,  vexation  and  excitement, 
Mrs.  Pridefit  hurriedly  ascended  the  stairs  to  assume  some 

3 


50  NEPENTHE. 

costume  better  fitted  for  removing  the  water  from  the  kitchen 
floor,  when  a  new  and  still  more  startling  sight  presented 
itself  to  her  excited  vision. 

The  bath-room  was  nearly  flooded  with  water.  The 
basin  was  full  and  overflowing  ;  towels,  soaps  and  sponges, 
were  swimming  upon  its  swelling  surface.  Pomades,  pumice 
stone  and  tooth  powder  were  floating  out  into  the  hall,  about 
to  make  their  democratic  way  down  Mrs.  Pridefit's  new 
Wilton  stair  carpet. 

No  wonder  the  the  tank  was  empty  and  the  boiler  dry. 
There  was  a  faucet  turned  and  the  water  must  have  been 
running  off"  a  long  time,  and  the  unwelcome  truth  forced 
itself  upon  Mrs.  Pridetit's  unwilling  conviction  that  she  her 
self  had  left  the  faucet  turned,  and  carelessly  forgotten  to 
shut  it  off.  The  fault  was  hers,  and  hers  alone.  But  after 
once  making  a  charge,  she  would  never  apologize,  never 
retract — it  was  not  her  nature.  She  tried  to  say  to  herself, 
that  the  girl  might  have  looked,  or  examined,  or  prevented  the 
catastrophe  in  some  way,  though  she  had  positively  ordered 
her  not  to  leave  the  kitchen  until  she  returned. 

John  Pridefit  never  knew  why  or  how  the  boiler  burst 
— but  he  did  know  that  he  himself  had  that  identical  morn 
ing  pumped  the  tank  full,  fearing  the  possibility  of  some 
accident.  Three  weeks  of  lonely,  suffering  days  and  pain 
ful  nights,  passed  on.  Though  still  sore  and  tender,  Ne 
penthe  began  to  use  the  lame  arm  and  delicate  hand. 
There  was  no  boiler  in  the  kitchen  yet,  and  the  pump  was 
out  of  order,  and  though  the  weather  was  severely  cold  the 
big  stone  was  moved  off  of  the  cistern  in  the  yard  and  all 
the  water  used  in  Mrs.  Pridefit's  kitchen  had  to  be  drawn 
up  from  this  open  cistern,  by  a  pail  attached  to  a  rope. 

Mrs.  Pridefit  began  to  feel  that  six  shillings  a  dozen  was 
an  enormous  price  to  pay  for  putting  washing  out,  and 
when  Monday  morning  came  again,  she  thought  Nepenthe 
could  do  it  if  she  tried  ;  so  Nepenthe's  little  benumbed 
hands  had  drawn  up  five  pails  of  water  when  the  rope 
broke,  and  down  went  the  pail. 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !  dear  me  !"  cried  the  frightened  Nepen 
the,  "  'tis  Mrs.  Pridefit's  new  pail,  with  the  gilt  band  on. 
What  shall  I  do1?  What  shall  I  do?"  bending  down  and 
looking  over  into  the  cistern,  and  then  came  that  fearful 


NEPENTHE.  51 

cramp  she  had  so  often  in  her  right  shoulder,  ever  since  it 
was  scalded. 

The  wind  blew  violently,  there  was  almost  a  hurricane  ; 
the  next  morning's  newspapers  reports  told  of  high  houses 
unroofed,  tall  trees  prostrated  and  eveu  persons  thrown 
down  by  violence.  There  were  two  columns  in  the  next 
morning's  Herald  filled  with  damages  from  the  gale  in  dif 
ferent  parts  of  the  country. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MRS.  PRIDEFIT'S  INDIGNATION  AND  CONSTERNATION. 

"  He  who  for  all  hast  found  a  spot, 

Wind,  waves,  and  tempest  dread, 
Will  find  a  place,  oh,  doubt  it  not ! 
Thy  foot  can  likewise  tread." 

GERHART. 

SUSAN  was  the  oracle  of  the  two  sisters  Simpson,  and 
Maria  never  expressed  an  opinion,  without  ending  by  say 
ing — "  Shouldn't  you  think  so,  Susan  ?" 

Seated  in  her  pet  corner  by  her  back  chamber  window,  in 
her  comfortable  rocking  chair,  Miss  Susan  was  reading  the 
twenty-fifth  chapter  of  Matthew  from  her  mother's  old  Bible, 
and  had  just  finished  the  twenty -fifth  verse — "  I  was  a 
stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in," — when  she  paused  suddenly, 
and  exclaimed, 

"  Hark  !  Maria,  hark  !  Isn't  that  a  child's  voice  I  hear  ? 
Hark  !  I've  heard  it  twice." 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  Maria,  who  was  a  little  deaf.  "  It 
must  be  rags,  or  lemons,  or  soap  fat." 

"  No  !  no  !  There  it  is  again  !"  said  Miss  Susan,  throwing 
tip  the  sash.  "  It  is  in  Mrs.  Pridefit's  back  yard.  Quick  ! 
quick,  Maria  !  See  that  old  bonnet  on  the  snow  by  the  cis 
tern  !" 

Miss  Susan  Simpson,  though  a  lover  of  ease,  could  move 
quickly  enough  when  occasion  required,  and  tearing  a  board  from 
the  fence,  she  and  Maria  were  soon  in  Mrs.  Pridefit's  yard. 

A  little  hand  was  holding  tight  the  edge  of  a  loose  stone 
which  projected  over  the  cistern.  There  were  no  more 
screams — the  poor  child  was  too  much  exhausted. 


52  NEPENTHE. 

"  Keep  hold  of  me,  Maria,"  said  Susan,  seeing  the  little 
hand  relaxing  its  grasp.  "  We  must  pull  her  up." 

Miss  Susan's  form  was  of  masculine  proportions,  tall  and 
muscular.  With  superhuman  strength,  she  rescued  the 
half-frozen,  terrified  child  from  her  perilous  position,  and 
finding  Mrs.  Pridefit  out  on  some  morning  expedition,  car 
ried  the  almost  senseless  girl  into  her  own  house,  and  laid 
her  on  her  own  bed. 

"  There,  Susan  Simpson,"  said  she,  while  rubhing  the 
girl's  cold  limbs.  "  You've  done  one  good  deed  now,  if  you 
never  did  in  your  life  before." 

Nepenthe  was  speechless  for  half  an  hour.  It  was  an 
hour  of  rubbing  and  stimulating,  before  she  was  able  to 
move.  Her  limbs  were  partly  frozen,  and  she  would  not 
have  lived  many  minutes  longer  in  the  water. 

About  an  hour  later,  Mrs.  Pridefit  stood  at  her  door,  ring 
ing  with  all  her  might.  She  was  getting  quite  impatient, 
though  well  protected  from  the  cold  by  her  mantilla,  muff, 
and  cuffs  of  Russian  sable.  "  I  declare  I  shall  perish," 
thought  she,  "  if  i  stand  here  much  longer.  What  can 
Nepenthe  be  about  ?  I'll  give  her  one  good  shaking  when  I 
get  hold  of  her." 

"  Let  her  ring  a  little,"  said  Miss  Maria. 

Down  the  stone  steps  at  last,  she  impatiently  flew  to  the 
basement  door,  where  her  succession  of  emphatic  thumps 
waked  no  spirit  from  within,  but  burst  open  the  thumb  of 
her  tightly-fitting  new  white  kid.  "  The  girl  must  be 
asleep,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I'll  give  her  one  good  shaking 
when  I  get  hold  of  her,  for  keeping  me  waiting  till  I  am 
tired  to  death.  I  shall  have  the  neuralgia  a  month  after 
this.  It'll  surely  go  to  my  heart  now." 

'•  Let  her  knock  a  little, "•'said  Miss  Maria,  peeping  out  of 
her  front  window.  "  It  will  do  her  good.  She'd  no  busi 
ness  to  set  that  young  thing  drawing  water  out  of  the  cistern 
with  that  old  rotten  piece  of  rope,  too,  while  she  herself  is 
all  rigged  up  skylarking  around  town." 

Five  minutes  more,  and  Miss  Simpson's  Bridget,  who'd 
had  all  her  Irish  sympathy  enlisted  in  the  tragedy,  opened 
Mrs.  Pridefit's  front  door,  and  told  her,  with  true  Irish 
pathos,  the  whole  story. 

It  was  very  provoking  to  Mrs.  Pridefit  that  her  neighbors 


NEPENTHE.  53 

had  interfered  thus  with  her  affairs,  yet  under  the  circum 
stances,  they  could  hardly  be  blamed. 

"  Tell  Nepenthe  I  wish  her  to  come  home,"  said  she,  dig- 
nifiedly  to  Bridget 

"  Indade,  ma'am,"  said  Bridget,  "  an  shure  she's  not  been 
after  spaking  the  whole  blissed  hour." 

This  was  an  emergency  for  which  Mrs.  Pridefit  was  not 
prepared,  and  she  had  invited  the  Rev.  Dr.  Smoothers  to  tea 
that  very  afternoon. 

Taking  it  for  granted  that  the  Misses  Simpsons  had  done 
what  was  necessary  for  the  present,  Mrs.  Pridefit  allowed 
herself  a  few  minutes'  soliloquy  :  "  Nepenthe  had  got  so 
she  was  doing  quite  well — she  wasn't  so  quick  as  some,  but 
she  was  active,  and  learning  to  do  quite  well.  What  if  she 
should  be  sick,  there  would  be  a  doctor's  bill,  a  good  round 
one,  too.  Then  she  half  frightened  me  to  death,  most  set 
ting  the  house  on  fire  the  other  night,  and  now  to  cap  the 
climax  she  has  drowned  herself,  and  my  new  pail,  too, 
(dear  me  !  how  many  pails  I've  lost.)  Just  to  think  of  Mrs. 
John  Pridefit's  turning  nurse  and  getting  a  new  girl.  Why, 
dear  me  !  it's  one  o'clock  already,  and  I  told  Dr.  Smoothers 
to  come  early,  and  I'm  sure  I  can  never  wait  on  my  own 
table.  Perhaps  Nepenthe'll  get  along  well  enough — I  sup 
pose  she's  scared  a  little,  but  that  won't  kill  her,  and  she 
may  be  a  little  deceitful,  and  try  to  make  the  ladies  believe 
she  is  seriously  hurt." 

Mrs.  Pridefit  had  always  found  cards  of  great  use  in  any 
sudden  emergency;  they  could  express  sincere  regret,  if  she 
desired  not  to  accept  any  invitation  ;  they  could  take  the 
place  of  ihany  civilities — and  it  was  often  said  of  her  when 
in  wealthier  circumstances,  that  when  she  could  not  attend 
church,  she  sent  her  card  to  the  sexton  and  had  it  laid  on 
the  altar — but  here  was  one  instance  where  cards  would  be 
of  little  use.  She  could  not  exchange  calls  with  the  Simp 
sons,  those  parvenu,  plebeian,  common  people.  Should  she 
go  now,  it  would  be  the  beginning  of  civilities.  She  would 
rather  receive  and  acknowledge  a  favor  or  kindness,  from 
any  quarter  than  "  those  Simpsons,"  she  had  so  long  ignored 
that  vulgarly  descended,  vulgarly  connected  family.  Then 
their  father,  she  had  understood,  was  nothing  but  a  retail 
grocer. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Pridefit  lectured  Nepenthe  about 


54  NEPENTHE. 

her  stupidity  and  carelessness  in  falling  and  thus  ruining 
her  only  valuable  dress,  but  these  lectures  could  not  quiet 
the  pain  Nepenthe  felt.  When  she  tried  to  stand  erect,  she 
could  not,  move  without  the  most  acute  pain.  Mrs.  Pridefit 
said,  "  Perhaps  she  might  have  sprained  her  shoulder." 
She  applied  some  Mustang  liniment,  judging  from  its  use 
fulness  when  applied  to  horses  that  it  might  be  of  equal 
benefit  to  Nepenthe.  The  third  day  Nepenthe  was  still  more 
ill.  She  tried  hard  to  stand  erect  and  seem  well,  but  she 
had  apparently  lost  the  use  of  her  left  arm,  and  the  left  collar 
bone  was  inflamed,  and  the  wounded  integument  was  swollen. 
Some  course  must  be  taken  consistent  with  their  personal 
convenience  and  pecuniary  liabilities. 

"  You  might  have  known,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit,  "  that 
that  old  rope  would  break.  I  told  you  it  was  not  strong 
enough  for  that  careless  girl  to  use.  Who  knows  but  this 
may  lead  to  rheumatism,  that  is,  inflammatory  rheumatism  ? 
Who  knows  but  it  is  catching  ?"  and  she  looked  disconsolately 
at  her  right  hand,  as  she  said  dolefully,  "  here  I've  two  big 
warts,  I  caught  at  the  industrial  school,  the  day  I  went  with 
Mrs.  Brown.  I  had  to  take  hold  of  the  hand  of  one  of  those 
ragged  young  ones.  I  wish^I  knew  how  to  get  rid  of  them 
— they  do  look  shocking  on  a  lady's  hand.  If  Mrs.  Brown 
had  Nepenthe  she  would  feed  her  fat  on  the  milk  of  human 
kindness,  and  wrap  her  up  in  the  garments  of  holiness,  band 
age  and  poultice  her,  and  make  toast  and  gruel  for  her  to 
resuscitate  her  constitution.  I  can't  waste  my  sympathies 
on  beggar  children — if  you  begin  there's  no  end  to  it.  I 
believe  as  Dr.  Smoothers  says,  '  God  meant  there  should  be 
classes  in  society.'  The  best  way,  if  you  know  a  girl  is 
getting  sick,  is  to  get  rid  of  her  before  she  gets  down  sick.  It's 
not  politic  to  be  caught  with  a  pauper  on  your  hands — and  me 
left  with  my  neuralgia,  too — but  we  could  not  help  this  any 
way,  John." 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Pridefit  was  walking  in  the  yard. 
He  stooped  to  pull  up  a  weed,  growing  by  the  cistern,  and 
as  he  stooped  he  saw  a  penknife  with  the  blade  open,  and  a 
piece  of  rope  lay  near  it.  He  brought  the  rope  and  the 
knife  into  the  house.  "  Jane,"  said  he,  to  Mrs.  Pridefit, 
"  was  this  a  piece  of  that  rope  I  fastened  to  the  pail  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  taking  it  and  examining  it,  "  yes,  it  was 
a  piece  of  the  clothes  line  with  that  very  knot  on  the  end  " 


NEPENTHE.  55 

!  Tis  strange,''  said  Mr.  Pridefit,  "  that  it  should  have 
broken  with  only  the  weight  of  that  pail.  It  is  quite  a  strong 
piece  of  rope" — and  after  a  moment's  pause  he  added, 
"  Whose  knife  is  this  ?  I  found  it  by  the  cistern. 

"  'Tis  a  good  knife,"  said  John.  "  It  is  very  strange  ;  it 
was  close  to  our  cistern  ;  it  looks  like  a  lady's  knife — just 
see,  on  one  corner  of  the  blade  are  the  initials  '  H.  S.  T.'  " 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

MRS.    PRIDEFIT    TAKES    A    COURSE   CONSISTENT    WITH    PERSONAL 
CONVENIENCE    AND    PECUNIARY  LIABILITIES. 

"Long  the  old  nurse  bent  her  gaze 
On  the  God  illumined  face  ; 
Marvelling  at  its  wondrous  brightness  ; 
Marvelling  at  its  fearful  whiteness  ; 
YVhy,  amid  her  deep  divining 
Did  she  shudder  at  the  shining 

Of  that  smile 

On  her  lips,  and  in  the  eyes, 
Looking  up  with  strange  surprise  ? 
Why,  in  terror,  turn  her  head  ?" 

IT  was  Monday  again,  and  windy,  dusty,  cloudy — nobody 
would  call  on  Mrs.  Pridefit,  certainly  such  a  morning.  She 
had  washed  her  own  dishes  in  her  leg-of-mutton  sleeves, 
slip-shod  slippers  and  curl-papers.  She  was  completely  ex 
hausted — she  would  get  the  morning  paper  and  rest  awhile 
on  the  lounge  in  the  drawing-room. 

There  lay  her  velvet  coiffure,  and  her  new  robe  de  chani- 
bre  with  cherry  facings — her  satin  slippers,  ready  to  be  put 
on  at  a  moment's  warning — they  were  all  so  stylish  and  be 
coming, — she  would  just  peep  out  of  the  door  and  see  if  that 
carrier  had  brought  the  paper  ,  but  there  was  not  the  paper 
— there  was  the  elegant  Mrs.  Theophilus  Brown  alighting 
from  her  carriage,  radiant  in  smiles,  satin,  and  velvet. 
There  was  no  chance  for  retreat. 

After  her  smiling  recognition,  the  leg-of-mutton  sleeves, 
fearful  sack,  and  frightful  curl  papers,  had  to  escort  the  el 
egant  Mrs.  Brown  into  the  undusted  parlor,  whose  wide 
open  staring  shutters  gave  to  Mrs.  Pridefit's  toilet  a  full 
eclaircissement.  Mr.  Pridefit  was  always  tearing  the  shut- 


56  NEPENTHE. 

ters  open.  Why  do  gentlemen  like  so  much  light  ?  If  a 
room  does  happen  to  be  undusted,  and  a  dress  not  quite 
d  la  mode,  or  even  en  deshabille,  up  go  the  windows,  and 
out  go  the  shutters. 

"  Is  there  any  one  like  a  man  for  letting  the  cat  out  of  the 
bag  ?  Why  must  they  have  every  thing  so  light  ?"  thought 
Mrs.  Pridefit,  as  she  tried  to  talk  blandly,  and  smile  agree 
ably,  and  bend  her  head  gracefully. 

Mrs.  Brown's  stay  was  short.  She  wanted  assistance  in 
making  out  a  subscription  for  enlarging  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Smoothers'  already  large  library.  Mrs.  Pridefit  couldn't 
refuse,  so  down  went  ten  precjous  dollars  under  Miss  Simp 
son's  five. 

She  smilingly  bowed  out  Mrs.  Brown,  and  then  frowningly 
returned,  and  looked  in  her  full  length  mirror  at  the  other 
end  of  the  parlor.  There  stood  Mrs.  John  Pridefit  without 
collar,  without  coiffure,  without  adornment.  She  would 
have  given  ten  dollars  more  to  have  Mrs.  Brown  seen  her 
in  her  new  robe  de  chambre,  or  rather  not  to  have  seen  her 
in  that  "  horrid  dress."  It  was  all  owing  to  that  careless 
girl,  who  ought  to  have  been  well  and  in  her  place. 

Mrs.  Pridefit  was  one  of  those  people,  who,  when  in  trou 
ble,  reproach  the  nearest,  perhaps  the  most  innocent 
cause.  Pride  was  the  strongest  elemeni  in  her  nature — 
this  pride  was  piqued,  and  she  hated  Nepenthe. 

If  you've  had  a  sleeplesss  night,  reader,  with  a  sick  child 
or  a  toothache,  and  you  get  up  in  the  morning  feeling  like 
letting  every  thing  go  for  once,  and  Bridget  seems  to  feel 
like  it,  too  ;  if  it  is  the  only  day  in  the  annals  of  your  house 
keeping,  when  the  furnace  fire  goes  out,  the  parlor  is  not 
dusted,  your  dress  en  deshabille,  you  sit  down  with  a  for 
midable  basket  of  inevitable  mending  or  a  most  bewitching 
book  ;  maybe  Bridget  has  taken  it  into  her  head  to  slip  off 
and  get  married,  or  go  and  see  some  cousin,  all  the  fires  un 
accountably  go  out.  Then,  surely,  some  high  bred,  elegant, 
fastidious  caller  comes  in  her  carriage  to  make  you  her  annual 
fashionable  call,  and  you  so  distracted  in  your  deshabille 
and  cold  dusty  parlor,  only  heighten  the  contrast  of  her 
self-possessed  blandness.  You  can  think  of  nothing  suitable 
to  say,  and  after  looking  critically  around,  and  saying  a  few 
elegant  nothings,  your  caller  gracefully  makes  her  exit,  and 
says  to  her  dear  friend  at  home,  that  Mrs.  has 


NEPENTHE. 


57 


grown  old  and  negligent  since  her  marriage — she's  not  a 
nice  housekeeper.  Her  circumstances  must  be  very  limited 
judging  from  her  plain  dress  and  cold  parlor.  Or  if  you  are 
literary,  it  may  be  because  you  are  a  blue,  you  are  so  neg 
ligent, — and  then  at  last  in  comes  Bridget  who  has  really 
greatly  aggravated  your  embarrassment  by  her  sudden  ab 
sence.  "  She  has  just  been  out  at  the  corner  to  see  her 
cousin  " — if  you  don't  scold,  it  is  because  you  are  very  good 
natured. 

Reader,  before  you  condemn  Mrs.  Pridefit  for  her  undig 
nified  and  foolish  impatience,  think  of  the  many  times  when 
you  have  been  excited,  angry,  or  unreasonable,  for  some 
equally  trivial  cause — something  of  which  you  are  afterwards 
heartily  ashamed. 

When  we  are  sailing  off  on  the  high  tide  of  self  esteem, 
self  respect,  conscious  of  our  all  sufficiency  to  meet  all  life's 
little  and  great  ills,  some  foolish  breeze  of  circumstance,  lit 
tle  and  weak,  will  lash  up  the  spirit  till  it  frets  and  fumes 
and  irritates  itself  into  a  kind  of  madness,  foaming  with  sud 
den  rage,  and  writhing  with  impetuous  pain. 

Let  the  kind  voices  of  our  good  old  grandmothers  still 
echo  in  our  ears,  "  Handsome  is  that  handsome  does."  This 
voice  is  an  uncertain  response  for  the  modern  world.  The 
world  says,  practically,  "  Handsome  is  that  handsome 
seems,"  The  first  bow  of  deference  will  be  paid  to  the  agree 
able  exterior,  which  is  the  first  passport  to  the  stranger's 
eye  and  hand  of  welcome.  It  is  an  instinct  of  the  warm 
heart,  an  impulse  of  the  refined  mind  to  make  house,  fur 
niture,  and  dress,  beautiful  and  symmetrical.  We  associate 
beauty  with  Heaven  itself. 

Our  ideas  of  upward  climbing  and  onward  advance  are  of 
rising  to  something  more  beautiful  and  perfect,  and  paradise 
wouldn't  be  paradise  to  us  if  in  our  beautiful  imaginings 
there  were  no  starry  crowns,  pearly  gates,  and  golden 
harps.  There  is  even  a  kind  of  beauty  in  perfect  order. 
Simple  and  plain  beautiful  arrangements  and  elegant  adorn 
ments,  are  sought  for  eagerly  by  all  cultivated  human  eyes. 
We  turn  wearily  from  a  hard  granite  hill,  with  its  wondrous 
trinity  of  quartz,  feldspar  and  mica,  to  gaze  admiringly  on 
the  beautiful  prairie,  bouqueted  with  sapphire  cups  and  ruby 
bells. 

When  Mrs.  Pridefit  descended  the  kitchen   stairs,  after 

3* 


58  NEPENTHE. 

looking  into  her  truth-telling  mirror,  there  was  in  her  face 
an  expression  which  may  be  summed  up  in  one  dark  word 
— -Retribution. 

Giving  Nepenthe  another  lecture  on  past  offences,  Mrs. 
Pridefit  was  soon  transformed  into  an  elegantly-dressed 
lady  in  promenade  costume,  and  on  her  way — whither  ?  By 
the  aid  of  the  directory  she  was  soon  in  the  office  of  a 
physician,  and  after  some  preliminary  and  plausible  pream 
ble,  she  said,  '•  I  will  be  much  obliged  to  you,  doctor,  if  you 
will  inform  me  of  the  requisite  preliminaries  to  getting  her 
admitted.  I  am  exceedingly  sensitive,  and  my  health  is 
extremely  delicate,  my  servants  very  inefficient,  and  I  wish 
to  consummate  some  arrangement  as  soon  as  possible.*' 

"  When  did  the  accident  occur,  madam  ?"  said  the  doc 
tor. 

"  Day  before  yesterday,  sir." 

"  Then  it  will  be  necessary  for  you  to  procure  the  services 
of  a  physician,  and  get  his  certificate  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
accident,  and  the  suitability  of  the  patient  for  the  institution. 
If  you  had  taken  her  directly  to  the  hospital  on  the  day  of 
the  accident  no  certificate  from  a  physician  would  have  been 
necessary.  But  as  it  is  you  will  be  under  the  necessity  of 
procuring  a  certificate  from  some  respectable  physician,  which 
certificate  you  must  present  to  the  Commissioner  or  Superin 
tendent  of  the  Alms  House,  at  the  Rotunda  in  the  Park,  en 
trance  Chambers  street,  and  he  will  give  you  another  certifi 
cate  which  will  entitle  her  to  admission." 

"  What  do  you  charge  per  visit,  doctor  ?" 

"  Well,  seeing  the  patient  is  a  poor  little  orphan,  I  will 
visit  her  and  make  out  a  certificate  for  two  dollars." 

"  Very  well,  doctor,  you  will  please  call  at  my  house  im 
mediately." 

"  I  will  be  there  in  two  hours,  madam." 

(Mrs.  Pridefit  makes  her  exit.) 

"  Good  morning,  doctor.5' 

"  Good  morning,  madam. '' 

Mrs.  Pridefit  on  her  way  home  soliloquizes  :  "  What  a 
fool  John  Pridefit  was  that  he  did  not  know  enough  to  have 
that  little  brat  sent  to  the  hospital  on  the  day  of  the  acci 
dent,  and  thus  saved  the  payment  of  an  exorbitant  doctor's 
fee.  Is't  possible  ?  Two  dollars !  Who  ever  heard  of 
such  an  outrageous  charge  ?  The  doctor  has  no  conscience 


NEPENTHE.  59 

— he  is  a  real  old  extortioner.  I  wish  he  could  pitch  into  a 
cistern  himself." 

Some  hours  after,  passing  up  through  the  main  entrance, 
through  hall  after  hall,  and  room  after  room,  lined  on  each 
side  with  rows  of  cot  beds,  upon  which  in  all  altitudes  were 
suffering  invalids,  Dr.  Gunether  came  to  the  surgical  ward 
in  the  rear  building,  where  were  a  group  of  students 
receiving  medical  instruction  from  an  old  surgeon.  The 
nurse  announced  the  arrival  of  a  new  patient  in  the  ward. 

"  Well,  my  little  girl,  what  is  the   matter  with  you  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Pridefit  thinks,  she  says,  that  I  have  some  of  my 
bones  broken  or  out  of  joint." 

Surgeon — "  Nurse,  remove  the  patient's  dress  from  the 
left  arm  and  chest." 

"  Stand  up,  my  little  girl.  Ah!  gentlemen,  there  is  a 
language  in  that  patient's  attitude  and  in  the  deformity  of 
the  injured  part  that  tells  you  distinctly  and  unequivocably 
the  nature  of  the  accident.  What  is  it,  gentlemen  ?" 

Several  voices  respond  :  "  A  compound  fracture  of  the 
left  clavicle,  sir." 

"  You  are  right,  gentlemen — this  is  a  compound  fracture 
of  the  clavicle.  No  trouble  in  the  diagnosis.  It  is  a  com 
pound  oblique  fracture  of  the  clavicle — and  notwithstanding 
the  amount  of  tumefaction  which  exists  in  the  parts,  our  di 
agnosis  is  about  as  easy  as  if  it  were  made  upon  the  dry 
skeleton.  The  wound  is  a  lacerated  one,  passing  directly 
up  over  the  left  breast  and  clavicle,  with  which  it  slightly 
communicates  at  the  fracture.  You  perceive,  gentlemen, 
that  motion  from  before  or  backwards  can  only  be  per 
formed  with  the  greatest  difficulty  and  suffering,  and  the  pa 
tient  is  rendered  incapable  of  performing  rotary  motions 
with  the  arm.  The  great  pain  produced  by  the  weight  of 
the  arm  stretching  the  injured  parts,  causes  the  patient  to 
incline  her  body  to  the  affected  side.  The  support  thus 
given  to  the  arm  by  the  inclination  of  the  body,  generally 
alleviates  the  pain.  By  tracing  along  the  upper  surface  of 
the  bone,  you  will  detect  a  depression  at  the  point  of  frac 
ture,  and  by  grasping  the  two  fragments  with  the  fingers  of 
each  hand  and  moving  their  broken  surfaces  on  each  other, 
you  will  find  the  crepitus  very  perceptible.  You  will  ob 
serve  that  by  thus  moving  her  shoulder  upwards,  backwards 
and  outwards,  that  I  reduce  the  fragments  to  their  natural 


60  NEPENTHE. 

position  with  the  greatest  facility.  Now  gentlemen,  the  in 
dications  of  treatment  in  this  case  are  to  retain  the  arm  and 
shoulder  in  the  position  in  which  I  now  hold  them,  and  with 
your  assistance  we  will  proceed  to  apply  apparatus  for  that 
purpose." 

After  an  application  of  a  healing  and  emollient  nature, 
Nepenthe  was  bandaged  with  long  strips  of  muslin  passing 
these  rollers  over  each  shoulder,  and  crossing  them  in  the 
form  of  a  figure  eight,  acting  in  a  manner  similar  to  an  ordi 
nary  shoulder  brace. 

Hanging  over  her  little  bed  a  board  bearing  her  name, 
age.  birth-place,  date  of  admission  and  name  of  injury,  the 
old  surgeon  and  his  disciples  passed  into  another  ward. 

"  Dr.  Gunether  tells  me,"  said  Mrs.  Brown  to  Mrs.  Pride- 
fit,  whom  she  happened  to  meet  while  shopping,  "  that  one 
of  the  patients  at  the  hospital  is  one  you  sent  there.'' 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit,  blushing,  "  it  is  rather  a  painful 
topic  to  me.  The  other  day  I  found  a  poor  penniless  orphan 
girl  who  had  no  home.  My  heart  would  not  permit  me  to  re 
fuse  her  a  temporary  asylum  beneath  my  roof.  I  brought  her 
home  with  the  intention  to  protect  and  watch  over  her  as  a 
parent  until  I  found  some  good  religious  family,  willing  to 
adopt  her  ;  but  the  other  day  while  I  was  absent  for  a  little 
exercise,  in  the  exuberance  of  her  sportiveness,  while  play 
ing  around  the  cistern,  she  stumbled  over  its  margin,  and 
was  only  prevented  from  drowning  by  a  projecting  stick  of 
timber  which  fortunately  caught  into  her  dress  by  means  of 
a  spike  driven  in  its  extremity.  After  watching  her  with 
intense  solicitude  and  finding  my  own  health  failing,  and  my 
neuralgia  being  so  much  worse — the  doctor  was  afraid  it 
•  might  go  to  the  heart — Mr.  Pridefit  and  myself  concluded 
that  she  ought  to  have  the  close  watching  and  careful  and  con 
stant  attention  of  old  and  experienced  nurses  usually  found 
at  the  hospitals.  I  am  exceedingly  sensitive — my  health  is 
'extremely  delicate,  and  my  servants  uncommonly  inefficient. 
This  is  a  trial,  but  as  Dr.  Smoothers  says,  '  We  are  often 
called  upon  to  make  great  sacrifices  in  the  path  of  duty.'  " 

Mrs.  Pridefit  wiped  her  eyes  with  her  new  embroidered 
mouchoir,  and  bowing  gracefully  bade  Mrs.  Brown  good 
morning. 

"  I  feel  so  relieved,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit  that  even 
ing  when  Mr.  Pridefit  came  home,  "  now  Nepenthe  is  off 


NEPENTHE.  61 

our  hands.  I  wish  I  never  had  brought  her  here.  It  makes 
my  neuralgia  so  much  worse  to  think  about  hospitals,"  said 
she,  sitting  down  to  finish  some  embroidery. 

By  Nepenthe's  bed  that  night,  sat  a  strange-looking  woman 
— that  gaunt  form,  those  hollow  eyes,  those  muttering  lips — 
she  turned  uneasily  on  her  pillow ;  was  it  a  dream  ?  No  ! 
no  !  she  had  seen  her  once — she  was  the  watcher  by  her 
dead  mother.  Did  this  strange  woman  always  come  to  sit 
by  the  dead  ?  would  she  die  too  ? 

No,  it  was  only  a  nurse  at  the  hospital,  and  Nepenthe  fell 
into  an  unquiet,  feverish  sleep. 

"  It  is  the  twenty-fourth  to-day,  and  to-morrow  will  be 
the  twenty-fifth,"  said  the  nurse,  as  she  stood  gazing  at  the 
sleeping  Nepenthe.  "  Yes.  to-morrow  will  be  the  twenty- 
fifth."  The  morning  dawned  ;  it  was  the  twenty-fifth  ;  well 
might  the  old  nurse  at  the  hospital  remember  it. 

"  It  is  the  twenty-fifth  to-day — it  is  your  birthday,"  said 
Dr.  Grunether  to  his  little  nephew.  "  You  may  go  where 
you  like.  This  is  your  day.  We'll  examine  all  the  balls, 
tops  and  marbles  in  the  city  if  you  like." 

"  And  can  I  go  where  you  do,  uncle  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  what  will  you  do  first  ?" 

"  Let's  take  a  walk  in  Broadway." 

Dr.  Gunether  had  so  often  paced  with  weary  feet  this 
crowded  thoroughfare — he  preferred  a  walk  in  some  quiet 
street  where  he  might  go  along  leisurely  without 
taxing  his  attention  in  steering  straight.  But  Broadway 
sights  and  Broadway  sounds,  omnibusses,  hand  organs,  shows 
of  toys  and  confectionery,  bright  windows  and  gaily  dressed 
ladies,  all  attracted  Frank's  curious  eye,  and  as  each  new 
bright  object  attracted  his  attention  the  boy  kept  giving  an 
extra  tug  at  his  uncle's  coat. 

They  were  soon  at  the  florist's,  where  japonicas,  helio 
tropes,  roses,  and  pansies  bloomed  in  elegant  profusion.  A 
bouquet  o*f  rare  flowers  was  Frank's  first  birthday  gift. 

"  Uncle,  now  take  me  to  the  hospital,"  he  said,  "  I  want 
to  see  where  you  go  every  day." 

Clinging  close  to  his  uncle's  coat,  the  child  passed  the  portal 
of  the  building,  and  was  soon  by  the  row  of  little  cot  beds, 
upon  one  of  which  Nepenthe  was  lying,  and  her  pale  suffering 
face  attracted  his  quick  eye.  While  his  uncle  was  convers 
ing  with  one  of  the  attendant  physicians,  Frank  stole  away 


62  NEPENTHE. 

from  his  side  and  laid  the  flowers  on  her  pillow.  His  uncle 
called  him  at  that  moment  without  waiting  to  observe  his  move 
ments.  Frank  followed  him,  trying  hard  to  keep  up  with  his 
uncle's  quick  step  and  look  back  at  Nepenthe. 

As  the  massive  door  closed  behind  them,  Frank  drew  a 
long  breath  once  more,  as  he  said  with  a  tearful  eye,  "  Has 
she  no  father,  no  mother,  Uncle  ?  Who  kisses  her  good-night, 
«,nd  what  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Nepenthe." 
-     "  Isn't  it  a  pretty  name,  Uncle  ?" 

"  Just  like  his  mother,"  thought  the  doctor,  "  always 
looking  after  pale  faces.  I'm  afraid  he  will  never  do  for  a 
doctor — he  is  too  tender-hearted.  It  is  true  enough  the  boy's 
heart  will  often  take  its  mother's  fine  stamp  ;  he  might  be  a 
poet,  author,  artist.  He  is  uncommonly  sensitive  for  so  young 
a  boy.  I  thought  he  valued  those  flowers  too  highly  to  dis 
pose  of  them  so  quickly." 

The  strange-looking  nurse  watched  the  child  as  he  laid 
the  flowers  on  Nepenthe's  pillow,  and  said  not  a  word,  but, 
bringing  a  tumbler  of  fresh  water,  placed  them  carefully  on 
a  shelf  in  sight  of  Nepenthe,  muttering  between  her  half- 
closed  lips,  "  It  costs  me  nothing — it  costs  me  nothing." 

A  shrinking,  painful  feeling,  an  anxious  dread,  seized 
Nepenthe,  as  she  gazed  on  the  unknown  but  remembered 
watcher.  But  the  heliotropes,  rose  buds  and  japonicas 
brightened  up  the  gloom  of  the  hospital.  She  slept  and 
dreamed  of  the  violets  under  the  window  of  the  old  brick 
house,  and  now  blooming  on  a  grave  in  a  Green-wood  dell. 
She  turned  and  awoke.  There  were  those  eyes  still  looking 
so  cold  and  unfeeling. 

"  The  Stuart  hair,  'tis  the  Stuart  eyes,"  the  woman  mut 
tered,  contemptuously  and  bitterly,  "  but  she  has  an  ugly 
name,  and  it  is  well  she  has  no  pretty  name,  with  the  life 
she  has  before  her. — What  will  you  have,  child  ?"  said  she, 
harshly,  as  she  came  suddenly  and  stood  by  the  bed,  draw 
ing  the  sheet  over  the  hot  hands  of  the  feverish  patient  with 
an  almost  choking  closeness. 

The  next  week  Mrs.  Pridefit  was  again  at  Stewart's.  There 
was  a  new  assortment  of  chen6  silks  and  she  was  looking  them 
over.  She  heard  a  voice  in  the  next  room  say  to  another 
lady,  "  Mrs.  Pridefit  and  I  do  not  exchange  visits  ;  she  does 
not  move  in  our  circle.  Pridefit  is  a  respectable  lawyer,  I 


NEPENTHE.  63 

believe,  and  I  get  small  subscriptions  from  her  occasionally  ; 
every  little  helps.  When  our  church  was  first  organized 
I  called  on  her.  The  church  was  small  then,  and  we  wished 
to  draw  iu  all  the  new  comers.  She  is  a  weak-minded  woman  ; 
and  flutters  in  every  new  fashion  that  comes  out,  and  if  she 
were  really  high-bred  or  well-bred  I  could  not  make  a  friend 
of  her.  She  must  lead  her  husband  a  merry  kind  of  life." 

Mrs.  Pridefit  bought  no  dress  that  day — and  that  night 
she  was  so  quiet  and  yet  so  cross,  Mr.  Pridefit  thought  she 
must  have  a  severe  attack  of  neuralgia. 

I  cannot  tell  you  why,  reader,  because  I  do  not  know,  but 
Nepenthe  Stuart  was  in  a  few  days  removed  from  that  hos 
pital  to  another,  and  that  other  not  half  as  comfortable. 
Behind  her  pillow  was  a  window — one  of  the  panes  was 
broken,  and  through  the  broken  pane  the  wind  blew  roughly 
in  on  the  pale  cheek  of  the  .sufferer.  Her  fare  was  miserable, 
she  was  much  neglected,  and  many  an  occasional  visitor  at 
the  hospital  has  said,  "  How  can  the  child  get  well  there  ?" 


CHAPTER    IX.      ' 

A    CHAPTER  WITH    SOME    "  PREACHING  "   IN    IT. 

"  I  hurry  up  heaven's  viewless  stairs, 
And  casting  off  life's  weary  cares, 
Open  the  pearly  gates  of  prayer." 

ALAR. 

"  And  some  fell  among  thorns. 

"  And  other  fell  on  good  ground,  and  sprang  up  and  bore  fruit  an 
hundred  fold."  LCKE  vm.  7,  8. 

"  Dr.  Wenden,"  said  Mr.  Douglass  on  their  way  to  church 
one  Sabbath  morning,  "  I  should  think  you  would  have  the 
blues  all  the  time  ;  you  see  the  saddest  sights  of  humanity 
— wounds,  bruises,  agonies  and  broken  limbs.  I  couldn't 
have  the  nerve  to  be  a  physician." 

"  Get  used  to  it — get  used  to  it,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  but  every  terrible  scene  must  make  a  wound  in 
the  spirit,  and  there'll  be  the  scar — there's  the  scar." 

"  Have  to  get  used  to  it,  Richard,  have  to  get  used  to  it. 
When  I  first  commenced  practice,  I  took  to  heart  every 


64  NEPENTHE. 

broken  limb  I  saw.     If  I  lost  a  patient,  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
going  to  my  own  funeral ;   and  every  interesting   destitute 
child,  I  was  for  taking  home,  feeding  and  clothing.       Had  I 
followed  my  early  professional  impulses,  I  should  have   had 
five  hundred  in  my  house  to  provide  for.      There   are   few 
things  done  in  this  world  half  as  well  as  we  think  we  could 
do  them  ourselves  ;  the  hungry  starve,  the  sick  are  neglect 
ed,  the  convalescent  hopelessly  put  back  by   harsh   and    in 
different  treatment.       When  I  first  came  from  the   country, 
and  walked  through  the  streets  of  the  city,  I  was  inexpress 
ibly  pained  and  exceeedingly  shocked   at  the   sight  of   the 
first  pale,  half-starved  ragged  baby,  held  in    the   emaciated 
arms  of  its  wan-faced  ragged  mother,  and  in  those  thin  pau 
per  hands   I    dropped  a  half  eagle,  and  passed  on,   wonder 
ing  greatly  that  such  a  case   of  forlorn    destitution    should 
have  stood  at  that  corner  so  long,  empty  handed,  ragged  and 
hungry,  while  velvet  and  diamonds   passed    by   unmoved  ; 
but  as  I  walked  on,  I  saw  ragged  mothers  and  white   faced 
wailing  infants  at  every  corner — and  now   I   find  these  sad 
visions    are    a   part   of    the    daily    city    programme,    which 
every  body  expects  to  see  as  they   pass   along.      We    even 
think  them  impudent  for  standing  and  shocking  our  delicate 
and    cultivated  ^vision    with    their    unsightly    pauperdoin. 
Only  a  little  kindness  would  do  so  much-,   I   would   say    to 
myself,  and  sigh  as  I  theorized  about  elegant   schemes   for 
ameliorating  the  condition  of  the  race.       If  I  only  could  get 
up  a  phalanstery  where  all  could  have  equal  right  and  priv 
ilege  to  enjoy  life,  liberty  and  happiness.     But  with  a  great 
part  of  the  world,  life  is  half  death,  liberty  half  servitude, 
and  the  pursuit  of  happiness   only    a    struggle    for   to-day's 
bread  and  to-morrow's    clothes.       If  some    body  would,    if 
people  would  do  something,  why  the  world  might  be  set  up 
on  its  heels  and  go  on  right ;   but  I  am  not  people,   I  am 
only   one   man   with   more   wants  of  my  own  than  I  can 
gratify,  so  now  I  meet  with  interesting  cases  all  the  time — 
but  I  say  to  myself  there's  wrong  all  around  that  I  can't  help. 
1^11  try  and  mend  the  broken  legs — then  they  must  walk  for 
themselves.       I  row  them  over   the   river  of  health — they 
must  help  themselves  up  the  bank  though  it  is  steep  enough 
— the  road  of  life  is  rough  to  all  of  us.     We  walk  it  till  our 
feet'are  sore  and  bleeding.      Struggle,  struggle,    struggle, 
rich  and  poor  climbing  for  something.     If  you  stoop  to  pick 


NEPENTHE.  65 

up  the  weak  behind  you,  one  loses  one's  own  footing — who'll 
pick  us  up.     I  go  home,  put  on  my  slippers  and  don't  think 
about  patients — but  I  must  confess  there's  one  little  patient 
at  the  hospital  who  has  unusually   excited   my    sympathies. 
For  three  long  months  she  has  been  an  example  of  patience. 
If  there  ever  was  a  waif  on   the  world's  wide  sea,   she   is 
one — she  has  a  child's  innocent  helplessness,  and  a  woman's 
patient  self-control — but  we  must  walk  faster  ;  the  bells  are 
tolling,  and  we  have  half  a  mile  yet  to  walk — we  might  stop 
at  Dr.  Elgood's,  but  I  prefer  going  on  ;  I  feel  more  at  home 
in  my  own  pew.       I  like  to  sit  in  the  same  seat  in   church. 
I  am  so  driven  round  during  the  week,  I  like   a   few  nodes 
in  my  orbit  through  which  I  may  pass,  and  recognize  some 
thing  quietly  familiar.       Last  Sabbath  morning,   that   agent 
from  Constantinople  refreshed  our  imaginations  with  a  whole 
chapter  of  statistics,  relieved  by  a  few  bald,  bare,  dry  facts. 
If  I  had  had  his  rare  opportunity  for  gathering  information,  I 
I  think  I  could  have  got  up  something  without  bearing  so 
much  on  the  dates.  If  I  only  preached  once  a  year  to  a  congre 
gation,  I'd  try  and  write  one  wonderful  sermon  that  wouldn't 
keep  them  yawning  two  hours,  and  looking  at  their  watches. 
When  the  sermon  was  half  through,  Mr.  John  Trap    got  up 
and  walked  out,   an    exceedingly  rude  thing  for  a  man  to  do. 
In  the  afternoon  we  had  a  sermon  about  '  those  who  go  down 
to  the  sea  in  ships.'       I  saw  Trap   slip  a  sixpence   into   the 
box.     That's  a  pretty  close  Trap  !  and  we  all  had  an  opportu 
nity  of  giving.  These  precious  opportunities  are  coming  pret 
ty  often  and  we  have  to  put  something  in  the  box,  it  looks  so  if 
we  don't — if  I  don't  go  any  other   Sunday,  I  am  sure  to  go 
when  the  agents  preach.     Wouldn't  it  be  a  good  plan,  Rich 
ard,  to  have  an  agent  for  the  relief  of  hard-working   doctors 
and  bewildered  lawyers  ?      We  might  as  well  have  help   as 
the  destitute  heathen  in  Farther  India.       If   we   give    them 
more  light  and  they  still  sin,  they  sin  against  more  light,  and 
their  condemnation  will  be  greater.       '  That  law  written   in 
their  hearts  '  often  puzzles  me.      Are  these  myriads  of  peo 
ple  with  souls  as  precious  as  our  own,  and  having  no   Bible, 
are  they  all  hopelessly  lost  ?       We  may  talk  about  the  utter 
selfishness  of  that  man  who  prayed — 

"  God  bless  me  and  my  wife, 
My  son  John  and  his  wife, 
Us  four  and  no  more. 

Amen. 


60  NEPENTHE. 

It  is  the  unuttered  prayer  of  half  the  world.  Do  we  not  all 
therefore  practically  pray  ?  It's  a  great  deal  to  discharge 
one's  duties  as  a  husband,  father,  doctor.  If  I  do  this  well, 
how  can  I  do  more  in  this  age  when  we  begin  housekeeping 
in  the  style  in  which  distinguished  men  lived  in  the  zenith 
of  their  prosperity  fifty  years  ago.  How  are  we  to  meet 
expenses,  pay  debts,  live  generously,  give  bountifully,  walk 
successfully  with  men,  and  humbly  before  (?od.  If  each 
man  would  take  care  of  himself  and  family,  the  world  would 
wag  on  well  enough,  but  we  have  to  help  some  poor  stick  or 
other,  all  the  time,  or  else  we  are  called  selfish,  and  close,  and 
heartless.  As  to  disinterested  benevolence,  if  there  is  such  a 
thing,  it  is  a  century  plant,  blooming  in  the  heart  of  humanity 
once  in  a  hundred  years,  /can't  find  it,  and  I  see  human  na 
ture  in  its  every  day  and  natural  face.  I  saw  a  half  starved 
beggar  child,  the  other  morning  on  a  door  step,  sharing  its 
last  crust  with  another  stranger  beggar  child  ;  that  was  the 
only  shadow  of  a  type  of  it  I  could  find.  I've  about  made 
up  my  mind,  I've  seen  so  much  selfishness,  that  I  shall  take 
good  care  of  myself,  and  get  as  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise 
as  I  can." 

"  You  can't  attend  church  often,  doctor,"  said  Mr.  Doug 
lass,  "  you  skillful  physicians  have  few  days  of  rest." 

"  Yes,  I  am  often  professionally  engaged,  or  professionally 
tired,  and  many  a  Sabbath  morning  the  sofa  is  tb£  best 
church  for  me,  and  as  for  Dr.  Smoothers,  he  is  so  often 
perched  up  on  the  frozen  heights  of  theological  speculation, 
or  soaring  off  in  some  transcendental  balloon,  overlooking 
or  examining  some  barren  field  of  conjecture,  that  he  sur 
rounds  me  with  a  metaphysical  fog,  or  drags  me  through 
a  perpetual  swamp,  as  he  rings  the  changes  on  his  infinite 
series  of  doctrines.  There's  no  knowing  on  what  wild  ocean 
we'll  land  if  follow  him  in  his  thought  balloon  over  the  sea 
of  conjecture,  and  his  tone  I  really  dread.  I  can't  see  why 
a  man  speaking  to  men  from  behind  a  pulpit  should  talk  in 
a  different  tone  than  from  behind  a  chair  or  table.  As 
somebody  who  once  heard  Dr.  Smoothers  said,  there  is  the 
same  key  note  at  the  begining  of  each  sentence,  the  same 
monotonous  level  through  the  middle,  be  the  middle  long  or 
short,  the  never-failing  dactyl  and  spondee  at  the  end,  and  so 
on  until  seventeenthly.  '  A  few  words  more,  and  I've  done/ 
and  off  he  starts  again  on  the  track  of  monotones  for  half  an 


NEPENTHE.  67 

hour  longer.  He  reminds  me  of  one  of  those  little  electro 
magnetic  railcars  going  round  and  round  on  the  top  of. 
a  table,  and  never  getting  any  where.  No  accident  of 
feeling,  no  sense  of  danger,  ever  occurs  on  that  track.  A- 
thought  must  be  incarnate,  have  a  shape,  form,  dress,  before 
we  give  it  a  reserved  seat  in  the  private  box  of  our  heart.  I 
like  this  pictorial  preaching,  illustrated  by  familiar  images, 
planted  with  flowers,  studded  with  stars,  where  thoughts 
marshalled  on  the  mind,  costumed  and  vivid,  move  before  the 
rolled-up  curtain  of  the  soul  like  a  bright  panorama.  Such 
sermons  take  us  by  the  hand  and  talk  with  us,  and  years  after 
they'll  come  again  in  some  lonely  hour,  and  pass  in  full 
review.  In  the  open  cage  of  memory  such  bright  winged 
thoughts  nestle  and  perch  ;  at  early  morn  and  still  twilight 
they'll  come  out  like  musical  birds,  and  hover  and  warble  in 
the  drooping  branches  of  the  shaded  soul,  singing  their 
matin  and  vesper  hymns,  chanting  their  midnight  mass  for 
the  repose  of  the  unquiet  spirit." 

"  Yes,"  said  Richard,  "  long  elaborate  essays,  dull  learned 
disquisitions,  dry  profound  researches  (not  of  human  life, 
but  of  Hebrew  lore,)  are  all  in  keeping  with  those  old 
pictures  of  ministers  in  square  frames,  white  cravats,  Bible 
open  exactly  in  front,  and  exactly  in  the  middle  of  the  Bible, 
fore-finger  raised,  so  that  the  observer  could  see,  and  know 
and  feel  in  the  top  of  his  bump  of  reverence,  that  that  is  a 
minister.  Modern  hurried  and  worried  humanity  is  not 
always  sitting  erect  in  pews,  docilely  waiting  to  be  admon 
ished  by  the  fore-fingers  of  men  in  angular  framed  notions, 
in  immaculate  cravats.'' 

"  No,"  said  the  doctor,  "  the  police  walking  about  the 
ecclesiastical  walls,  may  do  a  vast  amount  of  good,  these 
metropolitan  soul  police  in  citizen's  dress,  taking  us  by  the 
hand  and  helping  us  safe  across  the  muddy,  crowded  thor 
oughfare  of  evil.  Why  should  they  stand  in  life's  picture- 
gallery,  a  series  of  moveless  portraits.  In  God's  great 
Academy  of  Design  they  are  living  artists,  moulding  our 
rough-hewn  souls  into  God's  great  pattern.  Why  keep 
those  souls  idly  rolling  over  vague  conjectures  like  balls  of 
clay,  till  we  gather  not  even  the  moss  of  veneration  or  the 
form  of  worship.  We  each  of  us  think  in  some  particular 
favorite  avenue.  Into  that  familiar  avenue  a  spiritual  guide 
may  come,  walking  on  before,  and  not  standing  at  the  locked 


68  NEPENTHE. 

portals  of  the  soul,  ringing  gently,  and  waiting  politely 
to  enter  at  the  front  door  of  thought,  but  stealing  through 
some  by-lane  or  side  path,  into  the  soul's  cozy  sitting  room 
or  climbing  the  winding  back  stairs  of  feeling,  into  the  attic 
of  the  heart,  where  are  laid  away  musty  bundles  of  old  hopes 
and  old  opinions  which  need  to  be  rummaged  and  overhauled, 
well  assorted,  and  laid  open  for  careful  inspection  and  repair 
ing." 

''  Dr.  Smoothers,"  said  Douglass,  "  airs  once  a  week  the 
nice  sets  of  doctrines  in  his  own  head,  beating  them,  and 
turning  them  over  on  the  line  of  his  sermon,  just  as  the 
housekeeper  beats  and  airs  her  furs,  to  keep  out  the  moths. 
These  good  strong  doctrines  will  last  long  enough  without 
airing  them  so  often.  Of  all  things  deliver  me  from  these 
doctrinal  preachers.  Crossing  the  long  bridge  of  forms, 
why  not  ford  the  stream  of  feeling,  stoop  under  the  gate  of 
sympathy,  and  steal  in  at  the 'citadel  and  take  by  storm  of 
powerful  eloquence,  '  the  sin  beleaguered  soul.'  I  don't 
know  why,"  continued  Richard,  "  religion  must  be  so  gloom 
ily  represented.  We  get  the  idea  that  it's  a  good  thing  for 
Sundays,  for  sick  beds,  and  for  the  superannuated.  If  all 
these  Christians  are  really  bound  for  the  port  of  peace,  why 
don't  the  light  of  the  shining  shore  break  on  their  faces  ? 
This  solemn  cant,  serious  drawl,  sanctimonious  look,  if  spir 
itual,  was  never  imparted  from  the  bright  spirit-land,  never 
borrowed  from  a  heaven  of  bliss.  Last  Sabbath  we  had  a 
sermon  from  the  text,  '  Blessed  are  the  merciful,  for  they 
shall  obtain  mercy ' — there  goes  John  Trap  ;  he  might 
preach  from  the  text,  '  Blessed  are  they  that  take  care  of 
themselves,  for  they  shall  be  taken  care  of.'  ' 

"  I  must  tell  you  the  anecdote  of  an  elderly  Scotch 
woman  I  read  this  morning,"  said  the  doctor.  "  The 
Scotch  woman  gave  her  son  the  newspaper  to  read  aloud. 
The  only  reading  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  hearing  was 
at  the  parish  kirk.  He  began  to  read  as  he  had  heard  the 
minister  read.  The  good  woman  was  shocked  at  the  boy's 
profanity,  and,  giving  him  a  box  on  the  ear,  exclaimed, 
'  What !  dost  thou  read  the  newspaper  with  the  Bible 
twang  !'  I  know  much  of  this  professed  religion  is  mere 
'Bible  twang.'  I  can't  see  that  Christians  live  any  dif 
ferent  from  other  people.  They  are  just  as  anxious  about 
the  world,  and  just  as  absorbed  in  its  cares.  They  all 


NEPENTHE.  69 

prate  about  self-denial,  but  there's  hardly  one  of  them 
knows  what  it  means.  They  load  their  persons  and  houses 
with  luxuries,  and  if  they  happen  to  have  a  few  loose  pence 
left  they  give  them  to  some  beggar  to  get  rid  of  him.  To 
increase  their  reputation  they  head  some  long  subscription 
list  with  a  respectable  sum,  and  pinch  some  household  char 
ity  a  little  closer  to  make  up  for  it,  so  ministers  often 
smooth  over  the  points  in  their  discourses.  If  they  do 
lay  the  sermon  out  plain  and  clear,  they  line  and  wad  it 
afterwards  with  the  cotton  of  plausibility.  A  minister  must 
have  clear  ideas  in  his  own  head  before  he  can  make  them 
clear  to  others.  And  then  they  do  poetize  so  exquisitely 
about  self-denial.  I  don't  see  any  of  it.  But  here  we  are  at 
the  church  door,  but  the  hymn  has  been  sung,  and  the  ser 
mon  commenced.  I  hear  a  strange  voice  in  the  pulpit,  but 
I'm  used  to  being  late." 

In  a  clear,  solemn  tone  they  heard,  as  they  entered  the 
church,  "  Self-denial,  self-denial — no  man  enters  Heaven 
without  that ;  from  every  land,  however  remote,  there  is 
one  straight  road  to  Heaven,  the  one  bridge  over  which  all 
we  emigrants  to  that  better  country  must  pass — the  safe 
suspension  bridge  over  the  selfish  rapids  of  this  tempestuous 
life  is  self-denial.  Plant  yourself  on  it  once  and  you  may 
hold  direct  communication  with  Heaven.  The  bridge  spans 
the  eternal  shore.  Self-denial  is  the  one  line  underlying 
the  waves  of  life,  reaching  over  the  plateau  of  principle,  con 
necting  remote  friends,  aye,  and  distant  enemies.  Form 
this  line  of  life,  it  may  break  once  through  some  tempest  of 
passion,  some  undercurrent  of  feeling,  the  spirit's  bark  may 
drift  off  on  some  selfish  tide,  the  chain  may  part,  but  it  shall 
triumph  at  last,  and  out  pass  miles  of  arguments,  and  oceans 
of  theories. 

"  Cozily  you  sit  in  life's  easy  chair,  and  bolt  and  bar  and 
curtain  the  chamber  of  your  heart  lest  some  mendicant  pity 
creep  in,  or  starving  sympathy  ask  alms.  Poor  silk-worm 
soul,  crawling  on  softest  medallion,  garlanded  with  ruby 
and  emerald,  you're  weaving  there,  shut  up  so  closely,  your 
heart  shrouds.  The  good  within  you  is  dying  out.  You 
may  be  good  husbands  and  fathers,  models  of  professional 
skill  and  business  talent.  These  are  praiseworthy — excel 
lent.  But  each  of  these  duties  is  in  itself  remunerative  in 
money  or  happiness. 


70  NEPENTHE. 

"  These  give  you  no  pass  to  the  celestial  kingdom — you 
shall  never  plant  your  foot  on  the  eternal  shore,  without  this 
self-denial. 

"To  be  honest,  honorable,  successful  is  not  all  of  life.  Is 
not  the  body  more  than  meat,  the  soul  more  than  raiment  ? 

"  Keep  not  your  stinted  self-denial,  a  sickly  hot-house 
plant,  under  glass  in  the  conservatory  of  your  souls,  where 
you  go  on  sunshiny  days  to  take  a  look  ;  or  a  gold  fish  in  a 
small  globe  to  move  round  and  round,  and  never  move  on. 
It  must  live  with  you — inspire  you  week  long  and  life 
through. 

"  Cultivate  self-denial — you  will  not  relish  it  at  first,  tho 
taste  is  not  natural.  Cultivate  it  ;  it  will  be  a  delightful 
luxury  yet — the  calisthenics  of  daily  self-denial  will  keep  the 
soul  warmer  than  if  wrapt  in  a  thousand  luxuries.  Folded 
in  the  ermine  mantle  of  self-esteem,  you  may  look  out  and 
shiver  as  you  think  of  this  cold  hard  self-denial.  So  De 
cember  night  is  cold  and  cheerless,  go  forth  and  brave  it, 
and  the  bright  far  off  stars,  will  shine  down  cheeringly. 
Aurora  may  fold  around  you  her  glorious  lights.  Selfish 
monks  cloistered  in  the  convents  of  your  hearts — no  star 
light  of  love,  no  sunshine  of  conscience,  no  smile  of  God  can 
kindle  your  spirit's  sky  roofed  over  with  the  sheet-iron  of 
selfishness.  Come  out  under  the  clear  sky  of  duty  open 
doored  to  God.  Close  closeted  with  self  through  time's  re 
fracting  misty  medium,  objects  look  large  and  bright  that 
are  tame  and  common  place  after  all.  Come  out  and  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  upper  air  where  high  in  the  everlasting  zenith, 
truth  and  duty,  shine  full  orbed  and  radiant. 

"  Let  not  pride  come  between  you  and  the  humblest  duty. 
Pride,  pride,  pride,  poor  mortal  that  can't  go  with  you  to 
Heaven.  'Tis  a  heavy  armor  for  the  frail  spirit  to  bear,  it 
may  drag  you  down. 

"  This  poor  body  you  are  glorifying,  cherishing,  magnify 
ing,  beautifying,  is  only  an  old  tenement  house  wearing 
away  ;  the  keepers  of  the  house  are  trembling,  the  windows 
are  darkening,  the  panes  broken,  the  shutters  swinging,  the 
wheel  is  breaking  at  the  cistern — you  are  stuffing  the  win 
dows  with  rags  of  self-righteousuess — they  can't  keep  out 
the  winds  of  remorse  ;  you  yourself,  your  lease  expired,  must 
soon  move  out  of  it.  God  grant  you  may  move  up  out  of  it, 
into  the  purer  air  and  more  delightful  locality  of  the  celes- 


NEPENTHE.  71 

tial  city,  on  the  heights  celestial,  near  the  broad  avenue  of 
perfect  bliss. 

"  In  life's  frail  hammock,  on  trouble's  stormy  pillow,  over 
the  rough  billows  of  care,  rocked  by  a  Father's  hand,  sing 
this  sweet  lullaby  to  your  tired  soul — 

" '  Within  this  body  pent, 

Afar  from  thee  I  roam, 
And  nightly  pitch  my  moving  tent, 
A  day's  march  nearer  home.' 

"  How  the  great  heart  of  the  city  throbs  with  starving 
agony.  Do  something  for  somebody,  by  hand,  or  purse,  or 
prajer — the  next  wave  in  the  tide  of  life  may  wash  you  up 
— wrecked  on  the  shore.  Plant  yourself  like  a  flower  in  the 
heart  of  poverty,  lean  your  head  for  sympathy  on  sor 
row's  stony  pillow — hard  by  is  some  unseen  Jacob's  lad 
der  where  nightly  angels  troop. 

"  You  may  have  wealth,  and  fame,  or  noble  ancestors. 
What  are  rank,  position,  nobility  1  Are  they  fetters  to  bind, 
barriers  to  close  the  full  heart's  outgushing  tide  of  blessing  ? 
We  are  all  children  of  one  Great  Father  in  Heaven.  If  we 
do  good,  there  is  no  promotion  in  the  celestial  army  to  which 
we  may  not  aspire — we  may  be  kings  among  peers.  There 
is  no  musty  mortal  word  exclusive  in  the  archives  of  Para 
dise.  Once  laid  on  the  earth  pillow,  once  passed  the  last 
billow,  there  will  be  no  circles  but  stars,  no  laws  but  love, 
no  haughty  airs  those  airs  of  upper  Palestine.  Worship 
pers  of  grace,  grace  in  form,  manner,  surroundings — thirs- 
ters  for  glory,  know  you  not,  there  soundeth  out  in  richest 
melody,  this  beacon  promise,  echoing  evermore  in  the  ears 
of  grace-lovers  and  glory-seekers — '  The  Lord  our  God  will 
give  grace  and  glory  to  them  that  walk  uprightly.' 

"  You  are  following  the  bent  of  your  own  wishes,  the 
promptings  of  strong  ambition.  '  Hark  !  struggling  soul, 
hear  you  not  those  strong  head  winds  of  avarice  and  pride 
that  are  blowing  off  the  immortal  shore  ?' 

"  Let  not  your  soul  sit  idly  looking  out  of  its  windows  and 
waiting  for  vagabond  thoughts,  ever  strolling  by  and  prating 
away  the  hours. 

"  The  bark  of  the  soul  is  full  of  such  passengers,  crowd 
ing  its  cabin,  deck,  and  steerage  ;  wasting  its  energies 
which  should  be  employed  in  fitting  out  for  life's  voyage, 
with  a  crew  of  hardy  principles. 


NEPENTHE. 

"  Let  conscience  watch  at  the  wheel  of  life,  safely  steering 
the  spirit  bark  along  the  coast  of  danger,  off  the  dark  shore 
of  error,  through  rough  rocks  and  sandy  bars,  and  shallow 
channels  of  temptation,  lest,  worn  out  and  wasted,  the 
dismantled  soul  be  stranded — lost  off  the  eternal  shore  in 
sight  of  the  safe  harbor  of  the  port  of  peace,  all  hopes  on 
board  missing.  Once  leave  the  current  of  right,  once  dashed 
against  the  sharp  rocks  of  temptations  you  may  whirl  in  the 
eddies  of  remorse  forever.  Spring  the  leak  of  one  fatal 
error,  down  the  dark  depths  the  soul  will  sink,  lost !  lost, 
lost.  Then  what  will  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  golden 
freight  of  this  vast  world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?" 

Prof.  Henry  had  an  abrupt  way  of  closing,  yet  it  impressed 
the  last  thought  on  the  hearer's  mind,  and  left  him  usually 
trembling  at  the  door  of  conscience — at  that  door  the  sermon 
closed. 

Said  Richard,  as  he  passed  on  homeward  by  the  doctor's 
side,  "  He  seems  to  me  like  a  man  who  has  waded  through  a. 
sea  of  sorrow  and  reached  the  shore  of  peace,  and  found  there 
his  baptism  of  eloquence.  He  has  a  very  earnest  manner, 
and  most  solemn  yet  winning  voice.  Ministers  talk  too  often 
as  if  '  orthodoxy  meant  my  doxy,'  as  Dean  Swift  says.  But 
I  do  like  his  doxy — I  wish  from  my  heart  it  was  my  doxy. 
1  like  to  hear  a  man  say  what  he  feels  and  believes,  even 
though  I  don't  agree  with  him  in  sentiment." 

The  congregation  moved  on — Mrs.  Pridefit  said,  "  It  was  a 
very  nice  sermon,  but  not  as  pretty  as  Dr.  Smoothers,  nor 
was  his  prayer  as  splendid,  nor  his  toilet  as  exquisite.  He 
didn't  look  at  all  stylish,  and  then  he  didn't  wear  a  gown,  and 
Dr.  Smoothers'  gown  was  so  becoming  to  him  !  I  don't  like 
him  as  well  as  Dr.  Smoothers,"  said  she,  "  he  is  so  abrupt. 
But  I  was  so  glad  Mr.  Trap  was  there,  it  was  just  the  kind  of 
sermon  for  him.  I  wonder  if  the  professor  didn't  have  him 
in  his  eyes  when  he  wrote  it — -he  is  so  selfish  and  miserly. 
He  got  it  this  morning.  He  hardly  ever  goes  to  church,  but 
his  wife's  brother  is  there  on  a  visit  and  fte  is  a  great  church 
goer  ;  probably  he  got  him  out.  I  don't  think  the  man  has 
ever  been  confirmed.  He  always  reads  the  service,  though." 

"  He's  pretty  well  confirmed,  now,"  said  Mr.  Pridefit  dryly, 
"  and  as  to  services,  the  only  service  he  cares  for  is  the  law 
yer's  liturgy,  '  service  rendered.'  " 


NEPENTHE.  73 

"  Perhaps  his  conscience  may  have  been  touched,"  said 
Mrs.  Pridefit. 

"  Ther.e's  been  too  much  game  caught  in  that  Trap  ever  to 
be  sprung  by  any  force  of  eloquence.  Peace  of  conscience 
is  a  kind  of  '  satisfaction  piece'  he  cares  nothing  about.''  N 

If  every  heart  chord  that  morning  touched  could  have  turned 
into  audible  melody,  what  a  miserere  of  penitence,  what  a 
diapason  of  joy  would  have  struggled  out  and  swelled 
upward  on  the  still  air.  If  every  tear  that  morning  shed 
were  impearled,  how  radiant  with  pearls  the  pale  brow 
of  the  speaker. 

Miss  Susan  Simpson  walked  on  with  a  quick,  nervous  walk 
— she  threw  off  her  hat,  cloak  and  victorine,  and  exclaimed, 
"  That  was  a  real  gospel  sermon.  How  much  better  we'd  all 
be  if  ministers  never  talked  without  saying  something,  and 
stopped  when  they  got  through.  What  are  we  two  old 
maids  living  for — just  to  take  care  of  ourselves,  like  two  silk 
worms  trying  to  make  each  day  our  home  warmer,  pleasanter. 
I  think  we'd  better  call  it  Cocoon  place.  If  we  should 
die  to-day  people  would  say,  '  Those  old  maids  Simpsons 
are  dead.  I  wonder  who's  sorry.  Who'll  get  the  property 
now  those  old  maids  are  gone  V  That  self-denial  bridge — 
why,  I've  never  put  my  foot  on  it  yet." 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  get  to  Heaven,  what'll  become  of  Mrs. 
Pridefit  ?  She's  a  member  of  the  church." 

"  The  church  isn't  responsible  for  its  members.  If  you 
and  I  get  on  the  other  side  of  the  dark  river  it  will  be  no 
comfort  to  find  fashionable  professors  there  with  us.  Mrs. 
Pridefit  is  naturally  ugly  ;  she  must  struggle  hard  to  cross 
the  grain,  to  be  decently  good.  We  should  do  right  just  as 
constantly  as  if  our  names  were  written  on  church  books. 
She  is  a  very  susceptible  woman,  not  exactly  a  hypocrite, 
though  she  really  feels  solemn  in  church.  I  have  seen  the 
tears  roll  down  her  face  when  something  affecting  was  said. 
Then  on  Monday  she'd  be  blowing  up  servants,  scolding  the 
dress-maker,  and  putting  her  whole  soul,  mind,  and  strength, 
in  finishing  the  myriads  of  tucks  in  her  new  silk  dress, 
and  bewailing  over  that  neuralgia  of  hers.  She  has  streaks 
of  good — sometimes  she'll  attend  morning  prayers  for  a 
week,  and  express  great  gratitude  for  the  privilege  of 
coming,  and  then  that's  the  last  you'll  see  of  her  for  a  year. 
She  may  come  to  preparatory  lecture — every  body  goes  to 

4 


74     /  NEPENTHE. 

that.  We  have  our  own  life  lease  and  an  annual  debt  of 
gratitude  to  answer  for.  Just  three  years  ago  to-day,  Mary 
died.  Her  last  words  were  '  Susan,  live  for  God.'  You  used 
to  say  the  hobby  she  rode  was  self-denial — she  talked  about 
it  so  often.  If  it  was  a  hobby,  I  believe  now  like  a  chariot  of 
fire  it  bore  her  straight  to  Heaven — she  crossed  the  self-denial 
bridge.  What  if  I  should  die ;  my  fit  epitaph  would  be, '  Here 
lies  one  who  took  the  best  care  of  herself,  rose  early,  dressed 
well,  and  retired  late  daily  for  fifty  years,  and  died  in  afflu 
ence.'  I  am  too  old  to  be  loved,  but  I  do  want  to  be  remem 
bered  here,  and  remembered  when  Christ  comes  to  his  king- 
dom.  There  are  no  old  maids  there — we  shall  all  be  young, 
immortally  young — nor  lonely  nor  solitary  there  ;  there  will  be 
an  innumerable  company,"  and  Susan  wept,  as  if  the  sermon 
broke  up  the  depths  of  her  long  closed  heart.  She  looked 
at  sister  Mary's  portrait,  that  sweet,  patient  face,  <and  ex 
claimed,  "  ['11  walk  over  every  paving  stone  in  this  city  until 
I  find  where  Mrs.  Pridefit  has  hidden  that  poor  child.  I  have 
dreamed  about  her  often  since  I  felt  her  little  hand  clinging 
to  that  icy  cistern.  Mrs.  Pridefit  says  she  is  out  in  the  country 
recruiting,  but  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

Miss  Charity  Gouge  said  in  her  precise  way  to  Mrs. 
Edwards,  as  thev  walked  along  together,  "  It  was  the  right 
sermon  for  the  times.  She  hoped  it  would  raise  the  standard 
of  piety.  Christians  hadn't  come  up  to  the  gospel  standard 
yet.  Zion  was  in  a  very  low  state." 

The  tall  woman  with  the  long  nose  and  hollow  eyes 
moved  along  behind  the  crowd  of  church-goers  muttering  to 
herself,  "  Yes,  yes,  let  him  preach.  I  believe  in  practice.  I 
would  tear  him  out  of  the  pulpit  if  I  could,"  she  added 
with  suppressed  rage. 

John  Trap  did  groan  in  his  sleep  that  night.  Mrs.  Trap 
hoped  the  sermon  might  have  made  some  impression.  He 
tossed  about  restlessly  as  if  his  mind  was  disturbed,  but  at 
last  he  muttered  in  some  exciting  dream,  "  Put  him  through. 
Put  him  through." 

It  was  a  problem  that  kept  her  awake  many  a  night — how 
she  could  bring  up  John  Trap,  Jr.,  now  only  four  years  old, 
to  be  an  honest,  just,  equitable  man — more  than  all,  a  Chris 
tian.  The  little  fellow  walked  in  the  light  of  his  father's 
example.  He  imitated  his  look,  tone,  manner,  and  only  that 
morning  came  to  his  mother,  saying,  "  Mother,  that  Aleck 


NEPENTHE.  5 

Stevens  is  a  scamp.  He  ought  to  be  put  through.  When 
I  get  to  be  a  big  man,  I'll  put  him  through." 

John  Trap  sat  in  his  room  writing  three  names — he  was 
getting  out  some  new  cards.  Those  three  men  for  shrewd 
ness,  skill,  and  cunning  could  not  be  surpassed  in  the  coun 
try.  Trap  was  a  good  office  lawyer,  Fogg  a  sage  counsellor, 
and  Craft  a  skillful  pleader.  Reader,  I  wish  I  could  intro 
duce  them  to  you — "  Mr.  John  Trap,  Mr.  Serenus  Fogg,  and 
Mr.  Savage  Craft.  Whoever  takes  their  card  and  gives 
them  his  business  will  have  all  his  affairs  put  through." 

"  I  have  taken  good  care  of  Dr.  Wendon  long  enough,"  said 
ihe  doctor,  as  he  walked  slowly  home,  his  eyes  fastened  on 
the  ground.  "  I  must  do  something  for  some  body." 

"I'd  like  a  more  aristocratic-looking  minister,"  said  Mrs. 
Elliot,  as  she  passed  along.  "  Dr.  Smoothers  makes  such 
splendid  prayers." 

There  was  a  poor  lonely  French  gentleman  in  Mrs. 
Edwards' boarding-house  who  was  trying  to  learn  our  lan 
guage.  He  went  to  church  and  somehow  understood  much 
of  the  pure  English  of  Prof.  Henry's  sermon.  It  deeply 
impressed  him,  and  that  night  he  knelt  by  his  bedside  and 
offered  this  simple  and  eloquent  prayer  : 

"  0,  Dieu,  donnez  moi  des  paroles  non  de  celles  qui  flattent 
les  oreilles,  et  qui  font  louer  les  discours,  mais  de  celles  qui 
penetrent  les  coeurs,  et  qui  captivent  1'entendment." 


CHAPTER    X. 

DR.  WENDON'S  SELF  DENIAL. 

"  Place  at  thy  lattice  a  flower,  and  ne'er 
Will  it  let  an  evil  thought  enter  there  ; 
Bear  on  thy  bosom  a  posy,  and  lo, 
Wherever  thou  goest  will  angels  go." 

RUCKERT. 

"  Two  miles  would  cover  all  wherein  I  have  a  part, 
But  all  the  great  blue  heaven  could  never  fill  my  heart." 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

"  WALTER,  was  clear  carried  away  with  that  sermon,"  sol 
iloquized  Mrs.  Wendon,  on  Monday  morning  as  she  sat  by 
her  window  grouping  some  flowers  for  a  vase  on  a  little 


76  '   NEPENTHE. 

table  before  her.  "  When  Dr.  Smoothers  preaches,  Wal 
ter  generally  takes  a  good  nap — he  never  knows  much 
about  the  sermon  ;  but  he  repeated  almost  the  whole  of  this 
after  he  came  home.  The  text  was  nothing  uncommon — 
Dr.  Smoothers  preached  from  the  very  same  text  about  a 
year  ago  ;  but  he  made  a  very  elaborate  thing  of  it ;  he  is 
the  most  elegant  sentence-maker  I  ever  heard.  I  never 
think  of  the  ideas  when  I  hear  him  ;  I  only  watch  the  state 
ly  march  of  words,  as  they  move  along  grander  and  higher, 
like  an  army  of  golden  clouds.  He'd  be  a  very  good  man 
if  he  were  converted,  for  it  don't  seem  to  me  he  was  ever 
converted,  though  I  wouldn't  like  to  speak  such  a  thing  out. 
Mrs,  Pridefit  says  his  preaching  is  very  elevating,  but  it 
seems  to  me  if  a  lawyer  in  court  should  wander  so  from  the 
evidence,  or  so  desert  his  client's  cause,  the  judge  would 
stop  him  and  tell  him  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  case. 
He  couldn't  convince  an  intelligent  jury  by  such  a  style  of 
speaking.  I  imagine,  though  I  never  was  in  court  but  once 
in  my  life,  that  if  a  minister  would  address  his  congrega 
tion  as  if  they  were  all  jurors  waiting  to  decide  from  his 
pleading,  whether  they  were  guilty  sinners  or  not,  he  would 
be  more  successful.  I  wonder  if  half  the  clergymen  try  as 
hard  to  win  a  .soul  to  Christ,  as  a  cunning,  clever  lawyer 
does  to  win  his  case.  I  heard  a  celebrated  lawyer  once 
talk  to  a  jury,  and  I  verily  thought  he  could  make  them 
believe,  if  he  chose,  that  a  cat  had  six  feet,  and  he'd  make 
them  almost  see  the  cat,  and  hear  it  purr.  It  is  horrible 
for  a  man  talking  to  dying  men  to  spend  an  hour  in  wreath 
ing  words  with  graceful  flowers,  and  decking  thoughts  with 
tinsel  stars.  I  never  could  go  to  Dr.  Smoothers  for  advice 
or  prayers  ;  I'd  as  soon  go  to  a  star  to  warm  myself — but 
there  comes  Walter— I  hope  he  has  not  brought  any  body 
home  to  dine,  for  Bridget  has  one  of  her  nervous  attacks, 
and  little  dinner  we'll  have  to-day  of  her  getting — and  I 
have  cut  my  finger  so  badly,  cutting  that  tough  baker's 
bread,  holding  it  up  to  my  waist.  I  can  do  nothing  with  it 
— every  time  I  try  to  use  it  the  wound  opens  again." 

Mrs.  Wendon  left  the  window  to  put  some  more  geranium 
in  her  bouquet.  The  doctor  stole  quietly  in  by  the  back 
door,  went  softly  into  the  parlor,  and  then  came  up  stairs. 

"  Minnie,"  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands  together,  while  his 
eyes  sparkled  rather  mischievously,  "  I've  got  a  present  for 


NEPENTHE.  77 

you — I  laid  it  on  the  sofa  in  the  parlor — it  must  be  carefully 
handled,  as  it  is  delicately  made,  and  I  think  very  pretty. 
I  thought  it  would  amuse  you  sometimes  when  I  am  gone, 
and  you  are  all  alone.  I  hope  you  can  keep  it  always,  no 
matter  what  the  fashion  is.  1  think  the  style  will  always  he 
good,  it  is  one  of  those  things  that  improve  as  you  keep  it- — 
indeed,  I  think  I  shall  always  like  it." 

"  'Tis  a  new  piano,"  thought  Mrs.  Wendon,  rising,  and 
eagerly  going  towards  the  door.  "  Walter  is  always  getting 
me  some  pleasant  surprise.  I'm  sure,  he  has  such  exquis 
ite  taste,  I'll  like  whatever  he  gets." 

She  went  down  stairs,  and  paused  a  moment  before  open 
ing  the  door,  wondering  what  it  could  be  ;  and  then  with  the 
eager  impetuosity  of  a  child,  pushed  the  door  open,  and 
there  were  a  pair  of  beautiful,  bright  young  eyes  gazing  tim 
idly  up  into  her  face,  and  a  graceful  young  form,  startled  as 
a  timid  fawn  when  she  met  Mrs.  Wendon's  gaze — while  a 
blush  of  bright  crimson  suffused  the  pale  cheek. 

Mrs.  Weudon  looked  at  the  lovely  apparition,  and  smiled 
as  she  went  up  to  the  sofa,  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  It 
was  a  cold  October  day — she  removed  the  shawl  from  the 
shoulders  of  the  young  girl,  and  taking  her  hand,  drew  her 
to  the  register.  Her  bands  were  cold,  and  her  eyes  had  a 
weary  look,  as  if  the  child  had  just  recovered  from  a  long 
illness. 

Having  seated  her  in  a  low  rocking-chair  by  the  register, 
she  asked  no  questions  to  embarrass  the  young  stranger,  only, 
"  What  is  your  name,  child  ?" 

"  Nepenthe,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Nepenthe 
Stuart." 

"  Were  you  named  for  any  one." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  child,  "  it  was  the  name  my  mo 
ther  gave  me." 

"  Have  you  no  mother,  my  dear  ?"  said  Mrs.  Wendon, 
tenderly. 

"  No,"  said  she,  bursting  into  tears.  The  new  face,  the 
new  place,  the  kind  words,  the  excitement  of  leaving  the 
hospital  while  still  an  invalid,  were  too  much,  and  any  allu 
sion  to  her  mother  always  overcame  her. 

"I  will  be  your  mother,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon,  throw 
ing  her  arms  around  her.  "  You  shall  be  my  dear  child — 
you  shall  be  mine  as  long*as  I  live,"  and  she  kissed  the  pale 


78  NEPENTHE. 

forehead,  the  quivering  lips,  and  drawing  back   the   curls 
from  her  face,  wiped  away  the  tears. 

Just  then  the  doctor  peeped  in  at  the  door  and  called 
out — 

"  Minnie,  are  we  to  have  any  dinner  to-day  ? — the  cook 
has  gone  aloft,  and  the  brandy-bottle  is  empty." 

We  leave  Mrs.  Wendon  to  burn  her  fingers  broiling  the 
steak,  and  toast  her  face  browning  the  bread,  and  we'll  talk 
a  little  about  the  doctor. 

There  was  a  pleased  benevolent  look  in  the  doctor's  face 
as  he  stood  by  Nepenthe's  bedside  that  morning  at  the  hos 
pital  with  his  new  purpose  radiant  in  his  eyes.  But  the 
nurse,  as  he  left  the  door,  whispered  something  in  his  ear 
which  did  not  change  his  purpose,  but  made  its  accomplish 
ment  a  far  greater  act  of  self-denial.  The  whisper  haunted 
him,  as  with  a  heavy  heart,  he  bore  the  lonely  Nepenthe  to 
his  home,  and  for  long  months  wherever  her  smile  rested, 
there  was  the  shadow  of  this  dark  whisper.  The  doctor 
went  back  to  the  hospital  to  ask  one  more  question  of  the 
nurse,  but  she  had  suddenly  disappeared.  He  returned 
disappointed,  and  sat  quietly  thinking,  and  then  he  suddenly 
exclaimed — 

"  Minnie,  we  must  get  Nepenthe  well  first,  before  we  set 
her  about  any  thing ;  till  then,  she  may  be  my  page  and 
your  cup  bearer.  Homeless  young  girls  in  story,  books  all 
get  to  be  governesses.  What  else  can  an  educated  poor 
woman  do  ?  I  saw  once  a  very  sharp  review  on  a  new  work, 
and  the  point  of  the  critic's  sarcasm  was  aimed  at  the  fact 
that  the  heroine  was  a  school-teacher,  but  this  resort  to 
teaching  is  no  more  common  in  books  than  in  real  life. 
1  Wanted — a  situation,'  is  written  on  many  a  fair  young  face. 
I'm  glad  there  is  a  world  where  people  can  live,  and 
breathe,  and  move,  without  struggling  for  a  situation." 

While  the  doctor  and  his  wife  were  talking  that  even 
ing,  Nepenthe  had  fallen  asleep.  Haunted  so  long  by  a 
living,  watching  ghost,  her  rest  had  been  troubled,  her  wak 
ing  anxious,  the  sheet  was  drawn  tightly  over  her  face, 
"Mother,  mother,"  she  called  out  wildly,  as  if  in  a  night 
mare  sleep. 

"  Poor  child  !  Perhaps  her  mother  was  the  only  friend 
she  ever  had,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon,  tenderly,  drawing  away 
the  sheet,  and  gently  moving  her  head. 


NEPENTHE.  79 

"  Too  true,"  thought  the  doctor,  though  he  said  nothing, 
for  that  whisper  came  in  his  mind,  and  that  troubled  look  in 
his  face. 

"  How  proud  and  fond  her  mother  would  be  of  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Wendou,    "  and  how  pretty  she  looks  in  that  new  blue 
merino.     I  have  bought  her  a  blue  silk  and  a  blue  de  laine, 
and  the  inside  trimmings  and  strings  of  her  bonnet  are  blue. 
I  am  glad  blue  is  so  becoming  to  her,  it  is  a  color  of  which 
I  never  get  tired.      The  loveliest  of  human  faces,  the  most 
graceful  of  human  forms,  look  more  lovely  and  charming  in 
blue.     It  is  a  color  that  will  never  be  out  of  style.      Magen 
ta,  Solferino  and  cerise,  visible   black  and   invisible  green, 
immaculate  white  and  imperial  purple  will  rival  it   in   vain 
Each  coming  spring,  as  long  as  blue  violets  open  their  eyes, 
or  blue   forget-me-nots  close  their  starry  petals,  the  fairest 
blonde   will   choose    its    etherial    folds,    and    the    sparkling 
brunette  will  adopt  its  deeper  hues.     Tn  every  festive  hour, 
some  first  stars  of  fashion  will  be  adorn^  with  blue.       The 
King  of  Kings  has  adopted   it   for   His    full-dress    evening 
color  ;  every  magnificent  gathering  of  stars,  every  resplen 
dent  reception  of  courtiers  around  His  throne,  are   robed  in 
radiant  blue.     The   illustrious  Creator,  and  magnificent  Pa 
tron  of  Art,  Author  and  Artist,  has  made  it  the  color  laure 
ate.       His  golden  psalm  of  night,  His  ^rand  proem  of  crea 
tion,   His   illuminated    manuscript,    His    brilliant    vignette, 
His  Bible  of  the  Ages,  is  electrotyped  in  blue,  bound  in  ce 
lestial   ultramarine.      I  suppose   it  is   true,    because    every 
body  quotes  it  so  often,  that  beauty  unadorned    is    adorned 
the  most,  but  I  think  beautiful  hair   looks    more    beautiful, 
smooth  and  glossy  when  becomingly   arranged,   complexion 
and  eyes  grow  fairer  and  brighter,  when  the  person  is  taste 
fully  dressed.       The  best  artist  hangs  his  picture  in  a  good 
light,  with  a  handsome  frame,  and  near  some  object  to  height 
en  its  tone  or  soften  its  coloring.   The  charm  of  many  agreea 
ble  forms  and  faces  is  in  the  affluence  and  elegance  in  which 
they  are  set  like  gems — put  them  in  a  log  house,  in  a  plain 
coarse  dress,  the  beauty  might  be  gone.    Surrounding  happy 
and  fortunate  circumstances  give  a  strange  charm  to  many — 
see  them  elsewhere,  in  ordinary  and  uncongenial  circumstan 
ces,  the  illusion  is  gone.      Every  good-looking  person  well 
dressed,  is  at  times  pretty.      If  people  would  only  adopt  the 
fashion  that  becomes  them,  without  trying  to  shine  and  appear 


80  NEPENTHE. 

in  every  extreme  and  new  style,  how  much  better  they 
might  look." 

"  Nepenthe  doesn't  seem  like  a  jewel  in  a  new  setting," 
said  the  doctor,  when  she  had  been  with  them  several 
months.  "  She  acts  as  if  accustomed  to  all  the  refinements 
of  life." 

"  I  like  to  watch  her,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon  ;  "  she  stands 
and  looks  at  pictures  as  if  entranced,  she  listens  so  absorbed 
if  I  play  any  pathetic  air,  and  she  arranges  flowers  with  ex 
quisite  taste.  The  other  day  I  saw  her  with  a  bunch  of 
roses  in  her  hands,  crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  I 
did  not  disturb  her.  She  came  in  an  hour  afterwards  per 
fectly  composed — and  that  picture  of  the  dying  mother  in 
the  library,  I  had  to  put  away,  she  seemed  to  be  so  fascin 
ated  with  it,  and  was  so  agitated  as  she  gazed  at  it. 
There*s  another  thing  that  seemed  strange  to  me  :  when  I 
arranged  Nepenthe's  room,  I  put  that  little  Quaker  pin 
cushion  on  herx  *>•  *eau.  I  thought  it  would  please  the 
child's  fancy.  There  were  pins  up  and  down  the  skirt  like 
buttons.  She  had  it  in  her  hands  once  when  I  went  in  the 
room,  and  was  crying.  She  put  the  cushion  down  as  I  came 
in,  and  then  she  asked  me  if  I  would  let  her  lay  it  away  in 
her  drawer.  '  Why,'  said  I,  '  not  let  it  be  on  the  bureau, 
and  use  the  pins  who--,  you  want  them  ?  It  is  only  a  pin 
cushion.'  '  I  would  rather  let  them  be  as  they  are,'  said 
she,  quietly.  I  wondered  at  this  strange  wish  of  the  child, 
and  since  then  I  found  the  cushion  laid  carefully  away  in 
her  drawer  ;  not  a  pin  was  touched." 

"  She  has  very  strong  feelings,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and 
some  early  associations  may  still  be  very  fresh  in  her 
mind  " 

"Walter,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon,  laying  her  hand  on  the 
doctor's  arm,  "  I  think  the  child  may  prove  an  angel  to  us 
both.  She  has  almost  made  you  perfection  in  my  eyes,  and 
I  have  had  many  feelings  since  she  came  I  never  had 
before.  If  I  disliked  at  first  the  idea  of  you  brinjring  home 

•/  O        tJ 

a  hospital  patient  about  whom  we  knew  nothing,  she  has 
cured  me  long  ago  of  all  these  feelings.  I  believe  when  we 
do  any  thing  for  pity's  sake,  joy  is  brighter,  sorrow  lighter, 
duty  clearer,  and  all  through  life's  mingled  tide,  is  an  un 
dercurrent  of  melody." 

"  Minnie,"  said  the  doctor,  suddenly,   after   writing   the 


NEPENTHE.  81 

name  in  a  new  Bible  he  had  been  getting  for  Nepenthe, 
"  don't  you  think  Nepenthe  rather  a  long,  positive  name 
for  a  child  ?  Can't  we  make  some  contraction  of  the 
word  ?" 

"  Did  you  hear  Levi  Longman  ask  me  when  we  were  in 
the  country,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon,  "  why  you  call  me  Minnie  ? 
'  Why,'  said  I,  '  Mr.  Longman,  don't  you  think  it  a  pretty 
name  ?'  '  I  never  like  contractions,'  said  he.  '  I  was  al 
ways  thankful  I  had  a  name  that  could  not  be  trifled 
with.'  " 

"  Nobody  would  think  of  contracting  him  or  his  name 
either,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  curious  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
"  he  would  keep  stiff  and  starched,  in  the  folds  nature  gave 
him  ;  but  then  there  isn't  much  nature  about  him — he  is  one 
of  those  human  petrifactions  washed  up  on  the  shore  of 
creation  and  furnished  with  the  fossil  remains  of  some 
antediluvian  heart.  No  matter  how  warm  the  day  is  he 
cools  me  when  he  looks  at  me.  I  really  believe,  as  Dr. 
Holmes  says,  he  would  reprove  his  kitten,  if  he  found  her 
playing  with  her  tail,  for  useless  experiments  and  idling  time, 
and  for  undue  lightness  of  manner.  I  would  like  to  look  into 
his  school  ;  his  scholars  must  have  their  mouths  fixed  for 
saying  '  prisms  and  prunes  '  all  day." 

"  Then  those  children  in  the  family  where  we  boarded  all 
had  such  long  names,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon.  "  James  Richard 
Henry,  etc.,  and  no  matter  how  young  the  youngster  was, 
the  whole  of  his  long  name  was  distinctly  uttered  every 
time  he  was  addressed." 

"  I  would  nofgive  my  child  an  ugly  name  if  all  my  ances 
tors  way  back  to  Adam  had  them,"  said  the  doctor.  "  In 
my  grandfather's  family  there  were  three  brothers — Jonah 
Jonathan,  Abiathar  Benajah  and  Nehemiah  Nicodemus.  I 
wonder  why  my  sister  Mary  wasn't  called  Mehitabel  Jerusa 
lem.  The  name  is  the  first  association  we  connect  with  an  un 
known  individual.  Think  of  an  artist  getting  along  well  under 
the  name  of  Job  Smith.  People  are  so  fastidious  about  names 
that  musical  characters  go  off  to  Italy  and  come  back  celebri 
ties  with  some  new  suffix  to  old  names  oi'  an  entire  new 
cognomen.  Had  Jenny  Lind  been  Peggy  Snooks,  we  would 
not  have  liked  her  quite  as  well.  Think  of  Peggy  Snooks 
Polkas,  Peggy  Snooks  bonnets.  The  name  never  would  have 
been  the  rage.  You  may  say  fudge  !  Minnie,  but  you  must 

4* 


82  NEPENTHE. 

acknowledge  it  to  be  true.  All  the  Carolines  are  Carries 
now — Janes  Jennies,  and  Minervas  Minnies,"  he  added 
laughing.  "  But  see  that  child — look  out  of  the  window,  she 
is  arranging  a  most  beautiful  boquet.'' 

"  Doctor !  John  says  Mrs.  Cherrytree  has  broken  her 
limb  on  the  railroad,"  said  Margaret,  coming  up  the  base 
ment  stairs  as  Dr.  Wendon  stood  in  the  hall  putting  on  his 
overcoat. 

John  Trap  has  heard  of  Mrs.  Cherrytree's  misfortunes, 
and  has  gone  around  to  get  Cherrytree  to  sue  the  company 
for  damages,  for  six  thousand  dollars. 

"Mrs.  Cherrytree  has  a  fortune  in  her  own  right,  so  she  will 
probably  recover  heavy  damages,"  thought  the  doctor.  "  If 
she  were  a  poor  washerwoman  two  hundred  dollars  would 
be  enough.  Trap  will  get  a  large  fee,  and  so  he  will  get  a 
big  verdict.  He'll  talk  to  the  '  intelligent  jury'  until  he 
makes  them  believe  anything.  He  is  as  cunning  as  a  fox." 

As  the  doctor  drove  hastily  around  the  corner,  he  saw 
John  Trap  and  the  hollow-eyed,  long-nosed  nurse  of  the 
hospital  crossing  a  street  together.  They  seemed  to  be  in 
earnest  conversation,  and  she  handed  Mr.  Trap  just  as  they 
passsed  out  of  the  doctor's  sight,  a  small  roll  of  bills.  She  was 
looking  really  quite  angry,  and  almost  cross.  They  seemed 
on  very  familiar  terms.  "  I  kept  back  the  letters,"  said  the 
woman  in  a  low  tone,  "  and  so  the  property  could  not  be 
redeemed." 

"  The  Stuart  estate  is  worth  a  fortune  now,"  thought  Trap, 
though  he  said  nothing,  but  looked  all  at  once  pleased  and 
satisfied  with  his  shrewdness  and  success.  "Mrs.  Elliott  shall 
pay  me  two  thousand  for  my  services  for  her." 


NEPENTHE.  83 


CHAPTER    XL 

THE   MIDNIGHT    VISITOR. 

"  While  powers  unjust  and  guilt  prevail, 
Stone  1  would  be,  and  sleep  I  hail. 
To  see  or  feel  would  each  be  woe  ; 
Oh  !  wake  me  not,  and  whisper  low." 

MICHAEL  A.XGELO. 

NEPENTHE  had  been  at  Mrs.  Wendon's  about  a  year  when 
Mrs.  Wendon's  cook  was  ill — quite  ill.  It  was  the  recur 
rence  of  some  constitutional  malady.  She  asked  leave  of 
absence  a  week — meanwhile,  one  as  competent  as  herself 
should  supply  her  place. 

The  request  was  granted — the  new  cook  was  installed. 
Nepenthe  went  down  one  day  to  get  something  in  the 
kitchen — it  was  only  the  day  after  the  new  cook  came.  She 
was  tall  and  thin,  with  brown  false  hair  parted  low  over  her 
forehead.  She  wore  a  closely  fitting  cap  with  a  plain 
border.  She  looked  very  cross  at  Nepenthe,  and  muttered 
something  as  she  stole  back  quietly  up  stairs,  as  if  escaping 
the  presence  of  a  disagreeable  object. 

The  next  evening,  Mrs.  Wendon  had  a  severe  headache. 
Nepenthe  remembered  having  seen  the  camphor  in  the 
cook's  room  on  the  table.  It  was  about  nine  o'clock;  the 
cook  had  retired  early.  Nepenthe  walked  softly  up  into 
the  room,  her  cap  was  hung  on  a  nail  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
on  the  table  was  the  patch  of  brown  hair,  and  on  the  bed 
lay  the  cook,  fast  asleep.  A  lock  of  heavy  black  hair  bad 
escaped  through  her  nightcap,  and  hung  in  a  half  curl  over 
her  face.  The  hair  was  long,  fine,  black  and  glossy.  The 
forehead  was  high  and  white. 

"  Why,"  thought  Nepenthe,  "  does  she  wear  that  ugly 
patch  of  faded  brown  hair,  when  her  own  is  so  full  and  black 
and  her  forehead  so  white  and  high  ?" 

She  walked  softly  to  the  table,  took  the  camphor,  and 
Btole  out,  shuddering  as  if  she  had  seen  a  ghost.  MM. 


84  NEPENTHE. 

Sharp,  as  the  cook  called  herself,  was  taciturn  and  pecu 
liar,  yet  respectful  to  the  do'ctor  and  his  wife. 

One  day  Mrs.  Wendon  was  ill.  Nepenthe  wished  with 
her  own  hands  to  make  some  oat-meal  gruel.  Mrs.  Sharp 
turned  as  she  saw  her  standing  hy  the  range  stirring  the 
meal,  and  looked  at  her  witb  a  fierce  look,  saying  something 
in  an  undertone  ahout  her  not  being  mistress  of  the  house — 
she  worked  in  a  kitchen  once. 

Nepenthe  was  timid,  and  was  really  afraid  of  this  harsh 
woman,  who  seemed  to  have  taken  a  strange  dislike  to  her. 
She  hreathed  more  freely  as  she  went  up  stairs  again,  glad 
to  escape  from  the  region  where  the  new  cook  reigned. 

She  said  nothing  to  the  doctor  about  the  cook's  strange 
manner — he  might  be  angry  and  scold  and  send  the  woman 
away,  she  might  seek  some  revenge,  she  evidently  had  a 
great  dislike  to  her — it  was  best  not  to  trouble  the  doctor 
with  these  little  annoyances,  it  would  end  soon,  when  the 
old  cook  came  back.  Nepenthe,  though  young,  acted  with 
remarkable  prudence.  She  had  learned  patience  and  con 
sideration  at  her  mother's  sick  bed.  That  mother's  patient 
endurance  of  suffering  had  made  an  indelible  impression 
upon  her,  and  given  a  cast  and  tone  to  the  whole  of  her  fu 
ture  life. 

As  in  every  house,  there  are  days  when  everything  seems 
to  go  wrong — the  bread  will  burn,  the  milk  sour,  the  fire  go 
out,  or  the  cake  be  heavy — so  at  Mrs.  Wendon's  things 
went  wrong  the  whole  week,  as  if  an  evil  genius  presided 
over  the  establishment. 

As  the  doctor  drew  up  his  face  when  he  tasted  the 
muddy  coffee  one  morning,  "  It  takes  a  week  for  a  new  girl 
to  get  used  to  a  strange  house,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon,  apolo 
getically,  "  and  my  not  having  been  about  has  made  it 
harder  for  her,"  but  yet  that  night  she  wrote  a  letter  to  a 
friend  of  hers,  a  young  housekeeper  like  herself,  and  pathet- 
icalty  described  her  troubles.  We  make  this  extract  from 
the  letter,  though  she  will  hardly  justify  us  in  publishing 
one  of  her  letters  : 

"  I  left  the  care  of  the  lower  regions  yesterday  to  bells 
and  speaking  tubes,  till  a  peculiar  odor  ascending  into  the 
upper  regions,  prompted  my  speedy  descent  about  nooti.  I 
found  my  new  tea-kettle  high  and  dry  on  the  red  hot  range, 
the  potatoes  roasting  in  the  bottom  of  the  pot,  whence 


NEPENTHE.  85 

issued  clouds  of  angry  gas,  hissing  and  sissing.  Bridget 
was  in  the  yard  talking  with  Bridget  next  door.  My  new 
keeler,  for  which  I  paid  so  many  second  hand  clothes  last 
week,  had  been  hastily  washed  and  put  on  the  range  to  dry 
clean.  Bridget  says  she  '  always  generally  '  fills  the  kettle 
full  of  water,  and  as  for  the  keeler,  she  only  just  put  it 
there.  One  of  my  new  goblets  lay  on  the  table  in  sundry 
fragments — that,  she  said,  had  been  broken  '  this  long  time  ' 
— though  I  am  quite  sure  it  was  on  the  breakfast  table  in  a 
good  state  of  preservation.  The  elegant  glass  pitcher 
given  me  by  mother  when  I  was  first  married  had  been  left 
out  on  the  stone  steps  for  the  milk- man  to  fill.  When  filled, 
some  wandering  tabby  in  taking  a  drink  had  upset  it,  and 
the  handle  was  broken.  In  the  centre  of  the  bottom  of  the 
keeler  was  a  suspicious-looking  dark  spot,  which  will 
probably  soon  need  a  tuft  of  rags  to  fill  an  incipient  perfora 
tion,  and  the  next  week  she'll  be  coming  and  saying  with  a 
bland  smile,  '  If  you  plase,  ma'am,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
get  a  new  keeler,  for  it  lakes.  Sure  it  was  very  poor  tin  ; 
folks  says  them  old  clothes  women  allays  generally  gives 
poor  tin,  ma'am,  and  we  want  a  new  tub,  too.'  Sure  enough, 
the  tub  had  split  its  sides  for  want  of  hoops,  and  lost  its 
foundation  for  want  of  water.  I  can't  make  Bridget  under 
stand  that  a  tub  is  an  aquatic  animal,  and  must  have  water. 
The  tub  lies  in  the  cellar,  its  different  sides  hopelessly  sev 
ered,  for  two  of  them  had  been  burned  that  morning  for 
kindling — '  it  was  so  convanient  ' — now  we  have  the  tubs 
set,  I  suppose  we  won't  have  that  trouble.  The  clothes  are 
all  washed  and  ironed,  but  not  thoroughly  aired,  and  she 
has  put  them  on  the  beds  damp.  Nepenthe  has  taken  a 
violent  cold,  which  resulted  in  a  violent  attack  of  influ 
enza." 

We  take  this  little  account  from  something  she  wrote  her 
self  long  afterwards.  Says  Nepenthe  :  "  I  lay  wrapped  in  a 
pile  of  bed  clothes  one  night,  as  I  thought,  fast  asleep.  It 
was  about  midnight  when  I  was  certain  my  door  opened, 
and  some  one  walked  softly  in,  and  yet  I  thought  I  was 
dreaming.  Nearer  she  came  to  the  bed — there  was  a  bowl 
of  flax-seed  tea  on  a  little  table  by  the  bed,  and  lemons  cut 
up  in  it.  I  heard  the  rustling  of  a  paper,  as  if  the  tea  was 
slightly  stirred,  and  yet  I  dared  not  open  my  eyes.  Spell 
fcound  I  lay,  almost  afraid  to  breathe.  I  thought  I  was  in  a 


86  NEPENTHE. 

horrid  nightmare.  I  could  neither  scream  nor  stir.  I  knew 
I  heard  the  click  of  a  spoon  in  the  bowl  of  tea.  I  moved  as 
1  felt  a  handkerchief  over  my  face  and  some  strong  odor  al 
most  choking  me.  A  dog  barked  under  my  window — I 
never  heard  a  dog  near  the  house  at  night  before.  I  start 
ed,  and  I  know  some  one  stole  hurriedly  out.  It  was  a 
cloudy  night,  but  the  moon  looked  out  suddenly  from  the 
clouds  and  shone  full  through  the  open  shutter  on  my  bed. 
I  could  just  see  through  the  crack  of  the  open  door  a  kind 
of  dark  shadow  moving  along  through  the  hall.  The  shadow 
was  taller  than  Mrs.  Wendon.  It  was  not  a  man — I  have  a 
sure  feeling  it  was  not.  The  clock  in  the  hall  struck  the 
hour  of  twelve.  It  had  never  been  wound  up  to  strike 
since  I  came  to  Dr.  Wendon's.  I  had  never  heard  it  strike 
before.  I  know  not  how  it  happened  to  strike  that  night. 
By.  some  strange  phenomenon  of  dreams,  the  bark  of  the 
dog  may  have  awaked  me  and  caused  the  dream.  I  have 
since  thought  it  might  have  been  an  optical  illusion,  but  yet 
I  can  still  hear,  when  I  lie  awake  at  night  and  think  of  it, 
the  rustling  of  that  paper — the  click  of  that  spoon. 

"  I  have  a  vague  remembrance  as  if  the  shadow  had  the 
cook's  long  black  hair.  When  I  think  of  ghosts  I  think  of 
her.  She  might  have  come  in  to  see  how  I  was  sleeping,  to 
taste  of  the  tea,  to  sweeten  it,  to  see  if  I  were  really  ill — but 
ic  would  be  very  strange  and  unusual  for  her  to  show  any 
interest  in  me.  1  threw  away  the  tea  the  next  morning. 
The  cook  left  the  next  day — did  she  not  like  my  awaking  or 
did  she  not  know  it  ]  When,  and  why,  and  wherefore, 
was  that  mysterious  visitant  ?  Since  that  night,  I  sleep 
with  my  door  locked,  and  I  always  shiver  when  I  hear  a  dog 
bark  at  midnight.  It  was  not  a  dream — I  am  sure  it  was 
not — for  the  next  morning  there  was  a  little  piece  of  white 
paper,  which  had  been  folded  like  a  paper  for  powder,  by 
the  bowl  on  the  table.  There  was  nothing  in  it.  I  threw  it 
into  the  fire.  This  dream,  vision,  apparition — whatever  it 
was — I  never  told.  We  have  impressions,  foolish  yet  fixed 
— we  may  be  in  false  or  real  danger,  but  the  wisest  and 
strongest  have  often  a  little  superstition.  Then  nature  has  a 
dread  of  the  supernatural,  and  I  would  walk  miles  to  get  out 
of  the  way  of  that  cook,  never  to  see  her  more.  I  would 
rather  such  an  eye  as  hers  would  never  rest  on  my  face.  I 
Loked  out  of  my  bed-room  through  the  half-closed  shutters 


NEPENTHE.  87 

the  next  morning  as  I  saw  her  walking  off  rapidly,  and  I  felt 
really  glad  that  1  should  see  her  no  more." 

For  weeks  while  Nepenthe  slept  in  fchat  room,  night  after 
night  in  succession  she  was  visited  by  this  same  figure 
walking  through  the  room  at  midnight. 

Some  would  ascribe  this  to  supernatural  causes,  or  to  the 
activity  of  the  imagination.  A  scientific  physician  has  said 
this  kind  of  spectral  illusion  is  always  the  renewal  of  actual 
impressions  made  on  the  sensorium.  It  is,  he  says,  a  pecu 
liar  disease  of  the  internal  optical  apparatus,  the  effect  of 
which  is  to  produce  a  repetition  or  an  imitation  of  former 
impressions. 


CHAPTEE     XII. 

DR.  WENDON'S  DREAM. 

"  One  of  those  passing,  rainbow  dreams  ; 
Half  light,  half  shade,  which  Fancy's  beams 
Paint  on  the  fleeting  mists  that  roll. 
In  trance  or  slumber  round  the  soul." 

"  We  can  dream  more  in  a  minute  than  we  can  act  in  a  day  " 

RANT. 

"  IT  is  foolish  to  talk  of  dreams,"  said  Dr.  Wendon,  one 
morning,  when  Nepenthe  had  been  with  them  some  time, 
"  but  I  had  a  dream  last  night,  and  as  I  dreamed  it  the 
night  before,  too,  it  made  so  vivid  an  impresssion  I  could 
hardly  convince  myself  when  I  first  awoke  that  it  was  noth 
ing  but  a  dream.  It  was  as  if  I  had  seen  a  panoramic 
painting  unrolled  before  me.  I  thought  I  sat  on  a  lonely 
rock  by  the  ocean,  and  above  me  were  radiant  clouds.  It 
seemed  early  in  the  morning — before  sunrise.  Suddenly 
the  clouds  over  my  head  parted,  and  a  glorious  form  with 
shining  wings  descended,  approached  me,  and  gave  me  a 
half-open  bud  with  snowy  petals  edged  with  ruby.  As  ho 
handed  me  the  bud,  a  delicious  fragrance  perfumed  the  air 
about  me.  '  Take  this,'  said  the  angel,  '  watch  it  carefully 
till  it  blooms  :  years  shall  pass,  it  will  be  planted  in 
another's  garden,  when  rough  winds  will  blow  upon  it,  but 
it  will  become  more  beautiful  and  fragrant  than  ever.'  I 
turned  suddenly,  and  standing  almost  close  to  me  by  the 


88  NEPENTHE. 

rock  was  a  form,  all  black — not  black  like  a  negro,  but  black 
as  charcoal.  He  had  in  his  hand,  a  huge  ball  of  fire  ;  he 
looked  so  ugly  I  thought  he  must  be  the  devil.  I  looked 
down,  and  I  could  see  one  cloven  foot.  He  reached  forth 
to  take  the  flower  from  my  hand.  I  shivered  with  fright, 
and  tried  to  utter  the  name  of  Christ.  I  thought  if  I  could 
only  utter  the  name  of  Christ  I  could  keep  my  flower,  but 
some  night-mare  spell  seemed  on  me.  Suddenly  the  whole 
sky  was  black.  I  could  see  nothing.  I  could  hear  the 
waves  dashing  against  the  rock,  and  a  great  storm  coming 
on.  It  seemed  dark  for  a  long,  long  time  ; — my  flower  was 
gone.  Then  the  scene  changed.  I  was  in  Italy — there 
were  groves,  and  fountains,  and  vines,  and  such  a  clear  sap 
phire  sky  ;  I  sat  by  a  fountain  ;  I  could  feel  the  cool  winds 
on  my  face.  I  looked  up,  the  angel  was  by  my  side  again  : 
— '  The  flower  you  reared  is  fresh  and  beautiful,'  said  he, 
1  and  some  one  will  pay  a  great  price  for  it.'  Again  the 
scene  changed.  I  was  in  my  own  land  once  more  ;  L  walked 
by  an  artist's  studio  ;  I  looked  up  at  the  window  and  there 
was  my  flower  in  a  golden  vase,  more  beautiful  than 
ever. 

"  The  dream  is  no  sphinx,  no  poetic  myth,  no  mystery  or 
riddle  I  cannot  solve.  Some  little  Daniel  walking  about 
my  heart  tells  my  kingly  reason  that  the  dream  and  inter 
pretation  are  one.  I  will  not  waste  my  time  or  puzzle  my 
brains  with  settling  the  question  whether  coming  events  ever 
do  cast  their  shadows  before  them  on  the  shore  of  dream 
land  ;  whether  real  deeds  and  words  are  ever  thus  fore 
shadowed.  I  did  have  the  dream  ;  but  it  is  the  first  dream  I 
ever  had  that  I  repeated  to  any  one,  and  it  made  a  vivid  im 
pression.  My  dream  seemed  to  think,  and  feel,  and  imag 
ine,  and  reason  all  at  once.  It  is  photographed  on  my  soul, 
and  who  shall  dare  to  say  that  the  picture  may  not  be  repro 
duced  hereafter  on  life's  unfolding  canvass.  Dreams  are 
only  the  chaos  of  our  thoughts,  but  out  of  the  world's  first 
chaos  came  living  light,  and  solid  land.  Out  of  the  ark  of 
sleep,  dreams  may  glide  over  the  future,  and,  like  the  dove, 
bring  back  olive-leaf  tokens  of  subsiding  billows  and  cleared 
up  skies,  bidding  the  heart  safely  go  forth  on  life's  rainbow 
spanned  pilgrimage. 

"  Nepenthe  is  my  flower,  and  who  knows  some  one  yet 
may  pay  a  great  price  for  her,  if  now  she  is  carefully  culti- 


NEPENTHE.  S9 

vated  and  kindly  watched.  How  I  would  like  to  educate 
her  myself,  but  I've  no  time  in  my  absorbing  profession. 
She  has  read  some  history  and  poetry,  writes  well,  has  a 
sweet  voice,  gentle  manners  and  warm  heart.  But  she  must 
have  a  systematic  and  thorough  instruction  in  some  school. 
I  believe  with  Jean  Paul  Ritcher,  '  L'Education  doit  mettre, 
au  jour  F  ideal  de  F  indtndu.'  There  is  a  circular  Mr. 
Brown  handed  me  last  evening.  He  says  it  is  a  fine  school. 
I'll  read  a  little  to  give  you  some  idea  of  it. 

"  '  The  admirable  location  of  the  Institute,  magnitude, 
adaptation  and  beauty  of  the  edifice,  the  arrangements  which 
have  been  made  for  thorough  systems  of  instruction,  &c.'  " 
— the  doctor  skips  over  a  little  and  reads  on — "  '  Its  large 
patronage,  ample  means  enable  the  trustees  to  avail  them 
selves  of  all  the  educational  improvements  of  the  day,  and  it 
is  believed  that  this  Institute  can  furnish  facilities  for  a 
thorough  female  education,  at  least,  equal  to  any  in  the  city.' 
Here  is  a  long  string,"  said  the  doctor,  "  about  '  resources, 
quietness,  beauty,  and  healthfulness.'  I  in&ist  upon  it, 
Nepenthe  mustn't  learn  more  than  six  histories  at  once. 
Miss  Kate  Howard  came  home  from  school  the  other  day 
with  American  History,  Natural  History,  Modern  History, 
History  of  Literature,  History  of  England,  History  of 
France,  and  all  these  she  was  actually  studying.  I  want 
Nepenthe  to  spell  well  ;  as  for  me,  I  have  no  eye  for  spell 
ing.  I  could  read  Latin  long  before  I  could  spell  correctly. 
I  never  can  remember  whether  there  is  a  double  p  in 
opportunity,  a  double  I  in  immortality,  or  how  many  s's  there 
are  in  possession.  I  can't  think  whether  the  e  or  i  comes 
first  in  piece  or  niece,  and  just  as  I  get  a  few  words  right 
side  up  with  care  in  my  head,  out  comes  Mr.  Webster  with 
a  new  dictionary,  bobbing  off  venerable  consonants  and 
shortening  ancient  syllables  sacred  in  the  memory  of  the 
oldest  inhabitant's  spelling-books  from  time  immemorial. 
That  word  theatre,  with  its  illustrious  Latin  and  Greek 
origin,  I  am  told  is  descended  from  the  theatrum  family  on  one 
side,  and  the  theatron  family  on  the  other,  and  yet  it  is 
changed  now  to  theater,  so  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
trace  its  ancient  descent,  or  find  its  old  coat  of  arms.  If  I 
belonged  to  the  theatre  family  I  should  think  it  a  disgrace. 
Among  the  old  Greeks  and  Romans  it  is  said  that  the 
theatre  family  was  thought  a  great  deal  of,  but  now  even 


90  NEPENTHE. 

a  venerable  Greek  wouldn't  recognize  the  name.  I  have  a 
scientific  friend,  who  was  educated  at  Oxford — he  has  the 
noblest  of  hearts,  and  wisest  of  heads — he  is  quite  indignant 
about  this  changing  illustrious  names.  Besides,  an  r  looks 
more  elegant  and  classic,  before  an  e  than  after  one.  I  don't 
believe  in  taking  a  word  out  of  its  patrician  classic  attic,  and 
putting  it  under  cover  of  modern  dictionary,  with  such  a  new 
plebeian  face  you  wouldn't  know  it.  If  anything  is  entitled 
to  unchanging  respect  it  is  a  word  that  has  lived  in  the  best 
families  of  words  for  years.  There  are  so  many  of  these 
old  fossilized  words  dug  up  and  new-fangled  over  that  my 
bad  spelling  is  becoming  a  chronic  difficulty  ;  it  is  chronic 
and  constitutional.  I  call  it  spellingetis  ;  no  pathy  or 
catholicon  can  cure  it.  To  look  in  the  dictionary  is  the 
only  polychrest  I  know  of.  When  I  write  anything  important 
I  peep  into  that,  but  it  is  a  great  trouble  always  to  have  a 
dictionary  by  your  side. 

"  But,  Minnie,  suppose  we  send  Nepenthe  to  Madame 
Largadoo's,  she  is  all  the  rage  ;  she  will  teach,  so  the  maga 
zine  states,  ethnology,  embroidery,  philosophy,  natural  and 
moral,  geology,  anthropology,  scripture  exegesis,  music, 
vocal  and  instrumental,  the  languages,  French,  Italian, 
German,  Spanish,  dancing  and  Christian  evidences  ;  all  for 
four  hundred  dollars  a  year,  invariably  in  advance  ;  extras 
not  included.  Wouldn't  Nepenthe  make  a  Largadooviau 
paragon  ?  A  young  friend  of  mine  lately  engaged  as  a 
governess  in  an  illiterate  family,  and  the  anxious  mother 
told  her  at  first  she  wanted  her  to  teach  the  children  every 
kind  of  manners.  I  wonder  if  Madame  Largadoo  couldn't 
teach  every  kind  of  manners.  The  rule  for  her  school,  as  a 
French  author  says,  is,  '  Be  handsome,  be  polite,  people  see 
you,  be  gentle,  submissive,  cure  no  evils,  conceal  them,  peo 
ple  hear  you,  change  not,  only  disguise.'  We  have  profes 
sors  to  study  a  flea,  to  classify  a  gnat,  to  distinguish  a  cat 
from  a  rose  tree  ;  but  where  is  the  sublime  and  hidden 
being  ?  where  are  the  moral  sense,  reason,  conscience  de 
veloped  ?  Such  a  school  as  Madame  Largadoo's  makes  all 
alike,  knocks  off  all  the  salient  points  of  character  till  there 
is  not  a  nuance  of  character,  not  a  finesse  of  feeling  left. 
Madame  Largadoo  thinks  it  a  greater  sin  to  eat  a  pie  with  a 
knife,  than  to  tell  a  lie.  There  is  not  a  Largoduoviau  grad- 


NEPENTHE.  91 

uate  any  where,  that  would  dare  to  touch  a  knife  to  her  pie 
on  any  account,  not  even  to  manage  a  countrywoman's  tough 
buttermilk  crust.  The  girls  all  write  their  letters  in  Largo- 
doovian  hand  ;  superscription,  contents,  adieus,  au  revoirs, 
all  just  alike.  You  can  tell  a  Largodoovian  epistle  any 
where.  The  scholars  come  out  at  sixteen  with  assur 
ance  enough  to  stare  out  of  countenance  half  a  dozen  gentle 
men,  as  they  flirt  their  fans,  ogle  and  serpentine  through  the 
world. 

"  But  Nepenthe  must  be  well  educated — you  remember, 
Minnie,  how  the  chariots  of  the  gods  are  represented  in 
mythology  as  drawn  by  peacocks.  To  condemn  Nepenthe 
to  a  life  of  drudgery,  would  be  like  harnessing  a  bird  of 
Paradise  to  some  Liliputian  chariot,  to  draw  sand  or  earth 
around  the  same  barren  circle  for  years.  Nepenthe  is  a 
flower  in  the  casement  of  our  hearts — she  has  shone  and 
sunned  there  for  months.  I  mean  that  no  barren  rock  of 
circumstance,  no  gnarled  stump  of  duty  shall  bend  her  out 
of  her  native  course,  and  keep  her  thoughts  trailing  on  the 
ground.  There  are  everywhere  half-starved  minds,  living  on 
stray  drops  of  kindness,  and  occasional  dews  of  knowledge, 
struggling  up  through  all  the  strata  of  difficulties,  and  blos 
soming  at  last  in  beautiful  perfection.  Yet  they  sometimes 
lament  bitterly  through  life  the  want  of  early  culture — 
greater  still  they  might  have  been  had  they  had  early  cor 
rect  training.  We  :ill  have  some  defect  in  education,  or 
character,  we  lean  ever  to  some  ruling  fault  or  error,  like 
the  leaning  tower  on  the  banks  of  the  Arno — it  is  a  marvel 
we  stand  so  long,  so  erect  while  we  incline  so  far  from  the 
true  centre  of  spiritual  gravity.  There's  not  a  being  of 
whom  somebody  doesn't  say,  '  Well,  she  has  her  peculiari 
ties.' 

"  Did  you  get  those  violets  I  ordered  for  Nepenthe  ? 
She  seems  so  fond  of  flowers.  The  violet  is  my  favorite 
flower.  In  my  grandmother's  garden  I  never  heard  of  pan- 
sies,  but  there  were  plenty  of  violets.  I  could  pick  all  day 
and  still  find  an  inexhaustible  supply  ;  they  grew  lovingly 
together,  like  country  hearts  ;  not  in  circumscribed  patches 
of  solitary  rows,  as  in  city  gardens,  planted  at  conventional 
distances,  with  only  three  or  four  flowers  in  a  patch. 
They  might  well  be  called  '  touch-me-nots.'  '  Hithertos,'  I 
call  them.  They  can  never  creep  out  of  their  green  par- 


92  NEPENTHE. 

qucttes  with  box  all  around.  If  anything  ought  to  be  left  to 
its  own  sweet  impulses,  it  is  a  violet.  We  can't  change 
the  faces  of  the  flowers,  the  patterns  of  their  velvet  crowns, 
or  the  shape  of  their  purple  robes  ;  they  will  keep  the 
primitive  style  in  which  God  fashioned  them,  only  wearing 
sometimes,  when  highly  cultivated,  a  more  double  skirt,  or 
a  deeper  fringe,  or  a  rosier  blush.  We  can't  alter  their 
faces,  so  we  change  their  names.  We  might  as  well  call  a 
violet  '  Mary-meek-eyes,'  with  its  downcast  head  and  up 
turned  face  as  to  give  one  that  mocking  name  '  Johnny- 
jumper.'  I  sent  home  three  roots  of  tropiola,  too,  it  is  much 
thought  of  in  the  modern  conservatories,  with  its  velvet 
dress.  I  do  believe  it  is  only  the  old  nasturtium  we  ueed 
to  know  so  well  in  the  country,  where-  it  lingered  by  our 
doorstep  or  climbed  up  into  the  low  windows,  ft  has  come 
to  the  city  and  changed  its  name.  I  don't  think,  if  there  is 
any  difference  its  city  dress  is  half  so  pretty  as  its  old  rustic 
garb  ;  it  looks  paler  and  out  of  spirits.  But  a  Fifth  avenue 
violet,  though  surrounded  by  wordly  influences,  sends  up, 
just  as  pure  as  ever,  its  velvet  prayer  to  Heaven." 

"  Violets,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon,  "  are  like  God's  great  re 
hearsals.  His  soft  prelude  of  silent  melody  in  Nature's 
green  orchestra,  before  He  comes -out  with  the  full  floral  an 
them,  the  grand  philharmonic  of  the  season.  Some  flowers 
seem  to  have  a  soul,  so  spiritual  are  their  sweet  faces  and 
fragrant  breath  ;  and  who  knows  but  this  year's  violet  is 
some  violet  soul  of  last  year  waked  from  its  bed  1" 

"  If  Nepenthe  were  my  own  child  I  should  call  her  violet," 
said  the  doctor,  and  then  he  was  suddenly  silent,  as  if  dis 
turbed  by  some  uneasy  thought.  He  went  to  the  window  to 
fasten  the  shutter,  which  was  blown  back  and  forth  by  the 
wind,  and  exclaimed,  as  he  looked  out,  "  There  !  there  she  is 
again."  Seizing  his  hat,  he  rushed  out  of  the  house.  He  was 
gone  about  an  hour.  He  came  back,  judging  from  his  ab 
sent  and  dissatisfied  manner,  disappointed  in  the  object  of  his 
search. 

He  sat  quietly  thinking  for  some  time,  and  then  broke  out 
with  an  abrupt,  half-impatient  exclamation,  not  original,  but 
always  true. 

"  This  is  a  strange  world,  Minnie.  Ortly  an  hour  ago  I 
felt  in  quite  an  elevated  mood,  thinking  of  flowers  and  you 
and  Nepenthe.  When  I  was  out  I  passed  a  flour  and  pro- 


NEPENTHE.  .  93 

•r 

vision  store,  and  just  next  it  was  a  large  book  and  stationery 
establishment.     I  could  not  help  thinking   how   closely  our 
physical  wants  were  allie-d  to  our  ideal  needs.     No    matter 
how  bright  our  quiet,  happiest  day-dreams,    some  clamorous 
want  always  rudely  wakes  us  out  of   them.     In    the    daily 
journal  of  our  lives,  as  in  the  daily  papers,  many  of  the  in 
side  columns,  the  long  pages,  are  taken  up  with  the  list  of 
'  wanted.'     I  wish  I  could  follow  the  bent  of  my   own    pre 
ference,  and  do  that  which  T  like  best  and  enjoy  most,  but  I 
read  in  every  morning  herald  from  my  heart  so  many  wants, 
and  I  must  tug  away  so  patiently  to  earn  them,  and  I  can't 
cross  a  ferry,  or  ride  in  a  car,  or  walk  down   street  without 
hearing  some  thing  of  wants,  and  money  is  the  key  note   on 
which  every  note  is  pitched ;  it  is  buying  or  selling,  borrow 
ing  or  loaning  ;  you  can  see  it  in  almost  every    man's    eye, 
you  can  hear  it  on  his  tongue.     Even  if  you   do   not   know 
him,  there's  a  golden  link  of  sympathy  between  you  and  ev 
ery  mortal  you  meet.     I  have  sometimes  a  great  and   sub 
lime  contempt  for  this  money,  as  if  it  were   beneath   a   mo 
ment's  thought  or  care.     There  are  so  many  things   nobler, 
better,  higher,  and  then  again,  I  long  for  it,  for  the  power  it 
gives,  the  influence  it  sways,  the  sorrow  it   banishes,   brain, 
will,  talent,  generosity,  and  all  (rod's  good  gifts  are  so  often 
cramped,  fettered,  crushed  by  the  want  of  it.     I   hear   men 
say,  I  don't  care  any  thing  for  money,  but  I  don't  believe  it. 
Only  a  small,  contemptible  string  of  common  cord  may  bind" 
together,  for  our  handling  and  owning,   books   and   flowers, 
diamonds  and  pearls,  and  all  precious  and  charming  things, 
and  money  is  the  contemptible,  yet  indispensible   cord   that 
gathers  and  binds,  for  our  grasping  and  using,  the  treasures 
we  most  highly  prize.     If  you  despise  money,  just  live  one 
day  without  two  shillings,   find   yourself   suddenly    without 
even  five  cents  to  pay  stage  fare  when  you   are  three    miles 
from  home,  among  strangers,  and  very  weary,  and  you  have 
to  walk. the  whole  tiresome  distance  for  want  of  it.     I  did  so 
the  day  my  pocket-book  was  stolen,  and  I  emptied  my  pock 
ets  two  or  three  times,  to  be  quite  sure  there  was  no  linger 
ing,  lonely  five  cents  left.     But  look  at  that  child,   Minnie," 
said  the  doctor,  suddenly  looking  out  of  the  window,    "  how 
well  Nepenthe  looks  since  her  visit  in  the  country.      She  is 
just  crossing  the  street,  and  her  step  is  light  and  graceful. 
I  wish  we  all  could  have  stayed  longer   at   that   old   farm 


94  NEPENTHE. 

house.  I  have  no  attachment  to  this  building.  I  only  know 
it  by  the  number  on  the  door,  unless  I  see  your  face  at  the 
window  when  I  come  home.  It  is  just  like  all  the  other 
houses — it  is  the  fifth  house  in  the  block.  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  individuality  displayed  in  dress.  I  don't  see  why 
there  shouldn't  be  in  the  exterior  of  a  house.  I  want  some 
thing  besides  a  printed  directory  to  point  out  the  place  of 
my  residence.  I  like  some  railing,  or  wing,  or  tree,  or 
shrub  a  little  unlike  my  neighbor's,  some  peg  on  which  to 
hang  an  association.  I  want  one  tree  of  my  own,  not  one  of 
a  stiff  row,  but  either  so  luxuriant  or  crooked  that  I  should 
know  it.  I  could  tolerate  even  a  luxuriant  cabbage  or 
gaudy  sun-flower.  Nepenthe  says  these  rows  of  houses  re 
mind  her  of  the  little  wooden  houses  that  come  in  boxes  for 
children  to  play  with,  with  six  trees  to  stand  in  front,  with 
little  round  green  bunches  for  foliage.  These  trees  in  front 
of  our  door  are  all  just  so  high,  large,  round  and  green. 
They  look  prim,  stiff,  and  prudish,  as  if  afraid  to  rise  a  little 
higher  and  meet  the  kiss  of  some  caressing  breeze  or  catch 
the  low  whisper  of  a  frolicsome  zephyr.  I  get  tired  of  hear 
ing  people  ask,  Do  you  live  in  the  fourth,  fifth,  or  tenth 
house  in  the  block  ?  Block — block — how  I  hate  the  word 
block.  It  is  a  very  good  name  for  such  a  set  of  houses  that 
have  about  as  much  expression  as  a  block.  We  have  to  go 
into  the  country  every  summer  to  get  our  souls  chiselled 
out  of  these  blocks.  I  am  one  of  the  doctors  and  you  one 
of  the  ladies  in  this  block.  We  lose  all  our  individuality  in 
this  brick-rowed  city.  I'd  rather  spend  an  hour  in  the  for 
est,  listening  to  the  weird  music  of  the  hymning  leaves  than 
hear  a  whole  year  of  Broadway  sounds.  I  hope  I  shall  live 
long  enough  to  have  some  trees  of  my  own.  If  I  were  in 
the  country,  I  would  never  cut  down  a  tree," — and  the  doc 
tor  opened  a  book  and  read,  "  He  loved  old  trees,  and  used 
to  say,  '  Never  cut  down  a  tree  for  fashion's  sake,  for  the 
tree  has  its  roots  in  the  earth,  which  the  fashion  has  not.'  " 

— Gr  RATTAN. 

"  But  it  stands  in  the  way  of  the  tree."— GRATTAN'S  FRIEND. 

"  You  mistake  ;  it  is  the  house  that  stands  in  the  way  of 
it ;  if  either  be  cut  down,  let  it  be  the  house." — GRATTAN. 

Closing  the  book,  the  doctor  said  with  a  sigh,  "  That  vine- 
covered,  flower-adorned,  and  tree-surrounded  cottage  in  the 


NEPENTHE.  95 

country  looms  up  before  me  in  such  dim  and  distant  per 
spective,  if  I  wait  to  earn  it,  I  fear  I  shall  be  too  old  to  ec- 
joy  it.  I  must  invest — the  truth  is,  Minnie,  I  have  in 
vested  in  some  thing  which  has  paid  large  dividends  for 
many  years.  I  have  put  six  thousand  dollars  in  a  mining 
enterprise. 

"  After  careful  calculations,  shrewd  financiers  prophesy, 
I  shall  make  at  least  seventy-five  per  cent.  My  money  will 
work  while  I  sleep.  Mr.  James  thinks  I'll  clear  three 
thousand  the  first  year.  I  will  invest  one  thousand  of  the 
profits  in  bond  and  mortgage  for  Nepenthe's  benefit.  Bond 
and  mortgage  is  the  safest  kind  of  investment." 

"  Take  care  you  do  not  burn  your  fingers  in  this  coal 
speculation,"  said  his  wife,  laughing  and  shaking  her 
head. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  docter.  "  This  enterprise  is  a  rare 
chance  for  making  money — but  there  goes  Mr.  Mellin — do 
you  know  I  have  lost  my  practice  in  all  the  Mellin  family 
through  Trap's  influence  ?  He  is  a  rascal,  but  I  can't  see 
what  possible  grudge  he  can  have  against  me." 

We  leave  Dr.  Wendon  a  year  with  his  mining  operations, 
but  we  put  down  his  first  reports  from  the  mines. 

"  With  the  present  arrangements,  there  is  a  clear  profit 
of  forty-one  cents,  in  full  working  order.  They  yield  fifty 
tons  a  day,  and  with  additional  expenditures  named,  can  be 
made  to  reach  at  least  one  hundred  tons  a  day,  Sundays  ex- 
cepted.  The  engines  and  all  the  fixtures  are  new,  operat 
ing  since  August  last,  and  if  we  were  disposed  to  push 
things,  would  draw  up  one  hundred  and  twenty  tons  a  day. 
Six  hundred  dollars  will  be  wanted  in  January  next." 

We  drop  the  curtain  for  two  years  on  the  mining  opera 
tions,  and  leave  Nepenthe  awhile  at  school — a  schoolgirl's 
history  is  of  little  interest  to  strangers. 

Dr.  Wendon  had  built,  in  imagination,  his  charming  cot 
tage  in  the  country — he  had  planned  a  tour  of  Europe — he 
would  do  so  much  for  Nepenthe.  She  should  have  the  ad 
vantages  of  society,  of  travel,  of  lessons  from  the  best  for 
eign  artists — her  future  should  be  as  bright  as  her  child 
hood  had  been  dark.  Each  day  in  moments  of  leisure,  and 
each  night  in  dreams,  he  added  one  more  beautiful  turret  to 
this  Chateau  d'Espagne. 

He  couldn't  keep  from  congratulating  himself,  and  telling 


/ 


96  NEPENTHE. 

others,  how  glad  he  was  he  invested  in  this  fortunate  coal 
enterprise.  So  sanguine  was  he  of  his  success,  that  he 
would  have  been  perfectly  candid  in  advising  any  person  to 
invest  their  surplus  in  this  promising  speculation,  but  that 
word  speculation  always  reminds  one  of  risk  ;  he  called  it 
enterprise.  He  practised  his  profession  faithfully  and  con 
stantly,  while  he  was  saving  up  daily  in  the  bank  of  his  im 
agination,  piles  of  shining  dollars. 


CHAPTER 


EXCITEMENT    IN    A    PARLOR    TTP    TOWN. 

"  Two  ears  and  one  mouth  thou  hast  ; 

Dost  thou  of  this  complain  ? 
Thou  much  must  h  ear,  but  must 
But  little  tell  again." 

RUCKERT. 

ONE  could  hear  nearly  all  the  interjections  in  the  grammar, 
had  they  listened  at  the  key  hole  of  a  small  parlor  up  town 
one  Wednesday  evening.  "  The  dear  knows  !"  the  "  do 
tells,"  and  the  "  you  don't  says,"  made  a  perfect  jargon  to 
masculine  ears. 

What  could  so  raise  those  carefully  cultivated  voices  so 
far  abone  the  conventional  pitch  ? 

"  What's  all  this  about,  girls  ?"  said  a  voice  in  a  clear 
masculine  baritone  sounding  through  the  crack  of  the 
ioor. 

"  Why,  Fred,  it  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  you  ever 
heard  of,  most  unaccountable,"  said  his  sister  Kate.  "  You 
know  that  large  house  on  the  corner  we  passed  the  other 
day?" 

"  Kate,"  said  Fred,  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  begin  every 
thing  with  '  you  know.'  I  counted  all  the  '  you  knows  '  in 
one  of  your  sentences  yesterday,  and  there  were  actually 
Jive" 

"  Fred,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  bother  me  so  much  about  my 
talking,"  said  Kate,  as  she  turned  dignifiedly  round  to  Mrs. 
Edwards,  and  went  on  with  her  story.  "  The  family  live 
in  the  fifth  house  in  the  block," 


NEPENTHE.  97 

"  A  ring  was  heard  at  the  street  door  one  afternoon,  and 
the  girl  went.  There  stood  a  man  wrapped  up  in  a  cloak." 

"  Approved  brigand  style,"  exclaimed  Fred,  laughing. 

"  Don't  bother  me,  Fred,"  said  Kate,  really  vexed.  "  He 
was  wrapped  up  in  a  cloak,  with  bis  hat  drawn  over  his 
eyes." 

"  Yes,  that's  just  it ;  slouched  hat  and  intense  black  eyes," 
interrupted  Fred  again. 

Paying  no  attention  to  Fred,  Kate  went  on.  "  Only  one 
of  the  servants  was  in.  The  man  asked  if  the  doctor  was  at 
home  ?  She  said,  no.  He  then  inquired  if  his  wife  was  in  ? 
The  girl  replied,  no.  The  man  then  turned  as  if  to  go,  when 
there  was  a  loud  rap  at  the  basement  door. 

"  Probably  Bridget  was  expecting  her  beau  that  night, 
for  she  left  the  front  door  open,  and  went  down  in  haste  to 
see  who  was  there.  It  was  a  boy  with  a  basket  of  apples. 
She  stayed  to  chat  with  the  boy  and  put  up  the  apples,  and 
coming  back  up  stairs,  closed  the  front  door,  and  went  up 
to  her  sleeping-room  on  the  fourth  story,  to  beautify,  pre 
paring  for  the  expected  visitor,  with  whom  she  had  been 
'  keeping  company  '  so  long.  It  is  now  thought  that  the 
man  improved  the  occasion  of  her  temporary  absence  to  slip 
into  the  library  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  and  then  into  the  ex 
tension  room  in  the  rear  of  the  parlor.  There  was  a  young 
lady  in  the  front  parlor  who  was  singing, 

'  Life  let  us  cherish, 
While  yet  the  taper  glows ; 

And  the  fresh  tiowrets 
Pluck,  ere  they  close.' 

As  she  finished  the  last  line',  the  wind  came  in  through  the 
open  shutters,  and  blew  off  one  of  the  music  pages  from  the 
piano.  She  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  when  a  bullet  whizzed 
through  the  air,  and  lodged  in  the  wall  directly  in  front  of 
her — a  bullet  intended  for  her,  and  which  would  have  killed 
her  had  she  remained  a  moment  longer  in  her  erect  posi 
tion.  A  breath  of  wind  had  literally  saved  her.  Isn't  there 
a  line  of  poetry  somewhere  about  '  A  breath  can  prostrate 
and  a  breath  can  save  ?'  But  whatever  was  his  design,  the 
assassin  fled." 

"  You  are  quite  poetical,  Kate,"  said  Fred,  in  a  compli 
mentary  tone  ;  "  you  quote  so  accurately,  you  might  get  up 
a  verse  of  your  own  sometimes.  If  I  were  a  relative  of  the 

5 


98  NEPENTHE. 

young  lady's,  I  would  ferret  out  the  mystery.  There  is  some 
wild  love  or  deadly  hate  about  it."  Here  he  paused,  and 
then  added.  "  I  have  a  slight  recollection  of  something  oc 
curring  away  back  " 

Fred  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  broaching  a  forbidden  sub 
ject. 

"  Do  tell  us  !"  exclaimed  two  ladies  at  once,  with  all  the 
eagerness  of  curiosity.  "  What  do  you  know  about  away 
back?" 

"  0  nothing,"  replied  Fred,  quietly*  "  I  have  no  right 
to  reveal  that  which  I  must  unavoidably  find  out  in  my  pro 
fession.  We  shouldn't  abuse  fiduciary  relations — those  im 
promptu  disclosures,  often  so  unwillingly  made.  But 
really,  ladies,  I  have  no  disclosures  to  make.  I  had  once  a 
few  suspicions  from  a  few  stray  facts  ;  and  unsettled  and 
vague  as  they  now  are.  I  would  trouble  or  trust  no  one  to 
help  me  keep  such  secrets." 

"  As  for  me,"  said  Kate,  "  all  secrets  are  a  burden  ;  and 
isn't  it  provoking,  that  the  very  condition  of  a  secret  is  often 
the  keeping  it  forever  from  the  knowledge  of  the  very  per 
son  to  whom  of  all  others  you  would  most  like  to  tell  it  ?  I 
like  to  surprise,  excite  or  amuse  people  with  unexpected  or 
startling  news.  Somehow  it  does  give  us  a  little  extra  im 
portance  in  our  own  eyes,  to  have  some  wonderful  secret 
confided  to  us — to  be  the  only  person  beside  the  narrator 
that  knows  it.  We  promise  never  to  tell  anybody  as  long 
as  we  live  ;  but  then  people  will  guess  sometimes,  and  guess 
right — and  we  must  blush,  dodge,  lie,  or  keep  silence. 
Some  people  have  such  a  way  of  pumping  about  a  thing,  you 
really  feel  rude  if  you  evade  their  queries,  and  they'll  get 
everything  out  of  you.  But  these  very  ones  will  never  tell 
you  anything  of  their  affairs,  never  allow  in  any  way  any  of 
their  secrets  to  escape  them.  It  is  rather  mortifying  to  have 
every  bundle  of  secrets  in  your  head  overhauled  and  in 
spected,  while  you  remain  utterly  in  the  dark  about  their 
concerns.  I  declare  I  believe  if  it  was  only  right  to  lie,  I'd 
like  to  try  it  occasionally,  and  say  I  don't  know,  right  up 
and  down.  There's  Charity  Gouge  ;  she  begins  at  you  with 
one  of  her  '  Do  you  really  think  so  and  so  ?'  when  she  knows 
you  don't  think,  you  know  all  about  it — and  she's  the  last 
person  in  the  world  I  would  choose  for  a  confidant." 

"  There's  no  place  in  your  head,  Kate,  for  a  secret,"  said 


NEPENTHE.  09 

Fred,  laughingly  ;  "  you  remind  me  of  the  little  Irish  Jim  I 
saw  in  the  old  farm  house,  where  I  was  laid  up  two  days 
last  summer.  We  had  a  terrible  thunder-storm  one  night — 
every  board  in  the  old  house  rattled.  The  wind,  and  the 
rain,  and  the  shaking  of  the  house,  altogether,  aroused  Jim 
from  his  sound  sleep  in  the  sky  parlor  of  the  establishment. 
When  the  next  crash  came,  Jim  could  stay  no  longer  in  his 
snug  corner,  but  hurried  down  stairs  in  his  dishabille  into 
the  old  farmer's  bed-room,  exclaiming,  all  out  of  breath  with 
fright,  '  It's  started — it's  started  !'  looking  as  wild  as  his 
rough  erect  hair  and  big  eyes  could  make  him.  And  when 
you  get  a  secret,  Kate,  I'm  sure  of  one  thing — '  It's  started.'  " 

"  That  must  be  where  I  stopped  the  summer  before  last," 
said  Kate,  not  noticing  his  remark.  "  They  had  a  little  fac 
totum  Jim.  It  was  a  careless  habit  of  mine,  throwing  water 
out  of  the  window,  but  they  had  so  few  conveniences  in  their 
sleeping  rooms,  I  really  couldn't  help  it  sometimes.  I  emp 
tied  a  pitcher  of  water  out  of  the  window  one  day,  just  when 
the  Irish  girl  came  out  and  stood  in  the  back  door.  She 
had  just  asked  Jim,  who  happened  to  be  standing  under  my 
window,  '  Will  it  be  afther  being  a  wet  day,  Jim  ?'  '  I  don't 
think  it  will  be  wet,'  said  he,  turning  up  his  big  eyes  to 
wards  the  zenith,  as  the  most  authentic  source  of  informa 
tion  ;  when  the  entire  contents  of  my  pitcher  fell  on  his 
broad,  upturned  face.  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,'  said  I, 
hearing  his  sudden  scream,  and  seeing  the  unexpected  effect 
of  my  cascade  upon  his  clean  coat  and  collar.  His  momen 
tary  vexation  cooled  off,  he  was  so  delighted  with  the  extra 
politeness  of  my  apology.  To  be  called  sir  for  the  first  time, 
elevated  him  in  his  own  estimation  a  foot  higher  in  the  scale 
of  masculine  existence." 

"  If  you  tell  a  woman  a  story,"  said  Fred,  "  she  will  in 
stantly  think  of  another  like  it  to  tell,  and  so  wander  off 
from  the  subject.  It  is  surprising  what  wandering  minds 
women  have." 

"  Fred,"  said  Kate,  not  noticing  his  remark,  "  you  find 
out  to-day  who  that  young  lady  was  that  was  fired  at  yes 
terday." 

"  The  house  up  town,"  said  Fred,  looking  very  wise, 
"  was  Dr.  Wendon's  ;  the  young  lady  was  his  ward,  or  pro 
tegee,  or  adopted  daughter,  or  whatever  she  is,  Miss  Ne 
penthe  Stuart ;  and  I  saw  the  bullet,  the  piano,  the  doctor, 


100  NEPENTHE. 

the  Bridget,  and  the  young  lady  herself  this  morning  ;  so 
you  see  it  is  a  well  authenticated  fact.  Moreover,  the  boy 
with  the  apples  was  part  of  the  plan.  He  told  the  girl  that 
her  cousin  George  was  waiting  around  the  corner,  in  a  great 
hurry  to  see  her,  so  the  door  was  actually  left  open  by  the 
girl  for  at  least  five  minutes." 

"  Fred,"  said  Kate,  "  you  ought  to  be  ashamed*  of  your 
self,  pretending  ignorance  all  this  time,  when  you  knew  so 
much  about  it." 

"  Maybe  it  is  an  old  love  affair,"  said  one  of  the  ladies. 

"  They  say  the  girl  never  had  any  love  affair,  or  any 
avowal  of  love." 

"  Well,  she  might  have  injured  somebody." 

"  No,  she  has  not  an  enemy  in  the  world,  that  she  knows 
of,"  said  Fred,  "  she  is  young,  amiable  and  on  good  terms 
with  every  body  she  knows ;  neither  is  she  an  heiress  ;  her 
death  could  be  of  no  known  advantage  to  any  living  per 
son." 

While  these  ladies  were  continuing  their  conversation, 
another  group  were  gathered  in  the  parlor  up  town.  It  was 
Dr.  Wendon,  Mrs.  Wendon,  and  Nepenthe. 

Nepenthe  sat  on  one  corner  of  the  sofa  away  from  the 
window,  the  shutters  were  tightly  closed  ;  Dr.  Wendon  was 
•walking  back  and  forth,  and  occasionally  stopping  and 
talking  in  a  kind  of  hurried,  excited  way  ;  he  was  really 
exasperated,  and  spoke  in  rather  an  impetuous  manner 
though  he  tried  to  assume  an  air  of  unconcern. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  there  is  the  bullet,  and  there  is  the 
hole,  and  here  is  Nepenthe  as  white  as  a  sheet.  I  would 
like  to  sift  to  the  bottom  of  this  matter.  I  can't  get  any 
more  out  of  Bridget.  She  says  she  '  always  generally  keeps 
the  door  fastened,"  she  '  always  generally  stays  close  to  the 
house,  she  always  generally  is  very  careful.'  One  thing  I 
know,  I'll  ship  her,  if  she  leaves  that  door  open  again. 
These  villains  always  generally  come  and  go  like  shadows. 
I  wish  I  did  know  something  about  this  thing."  Nepenthe 
evidently  had  some  enemy  ;  but,  we  very  well  know,  not  of 
her  own  making. 

"  There  is  something,  we  may  be  sure,  depending  upon 
her  life.  The  ball  was  fired  by  a  person  standing  about 
here,"  he  added  stepping  back  a  few  paces  in  a  line  with  the 
piano.  "  There  is  no  getting  any  more  out  of  Bridget ;  she 


NEPENTHE.  101 

says  the  man  was  tall,  but  not  so  very  tall  ;  fat,  but  not  so 
very  fat ;  old,  but  not  so  very  old  ;  he  might  be  young — she 
couldn't  tell.  There's  no  accident  in  this  it  was  all  designed 
and  plannned,  and  pretty  well  carried  out,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  shall  always  keep  that  page  of  music,  for  it  saved  my 
life,"  said  Nepenthe. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I've  had  this  house  pretty 
well  secured  to-day  with  iron,  brass,  and  plated  chain  bolts, 
safe  night  latches  and  bolts,  secret  sash  fastenings  and  shut 
ter  bars  and  secret  bolts.  I'll  have  my  double  barreled  pis 
tol  at  the  head  of  my  bed,  and  I've  engaged  two  private 
watchmen  to  watch  my  house." 

"  I  can't  sleep  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon,  as  she  retired 
early  to  rest.  "  I  can't  sleep,  though  the  house  is  all  locked 
and  fastened  up.  Did  you  see  that  man's  nose  flattening 
against  the  window  pane  only  night  before  last  as  you  went 
to  shut  the  blinds  ?  I  dreamed  about  it,  and  every  time  I 
opened  my  eyes  I  could  see  that  face." 

"  The  professional  burglar  can  get  in  any  where  if  he  ia 
determined  to.  But  this  man  was  no  mere  burglar.  My 
watch  lay  on  the  table  near  where  he  stood,  and  he  could 
easily  have  taken  it  if  he  chose,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  If  I  am  excited  or  frightened  at  night,"  said  Mrs.  Wen 
don,  "  I  imagine  all  sorts  of  things,  and  remember  all  the 
stories  of  murders,  ghosts  and  robberies  I  have  ever  heard. 
I  tremble  at  every  noise — There  !  do  you  hear  that  ?"  she 
said  suddenly,  as  she  turned  to  the  doctor,  and  whispered 
as  she  heard  some  noise  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house. 

"  'Tis  only  a  big  rat  knocking  down  something  in  the  cel 
lar,"  said  her  husband.  But  what  a  strange  propensity 
there  is,  thought  he,  to  talk  and  think  over  tales  of  ghosts, 
murders,  and  mysteries,  just  as  we  are  about  to  retire,  until 
we  are  almost  afraid  to  look  into  each  other's  frightened 
faces.  How  the  forgotten  facts  of  a  long  veiled  mystery 
loom  up  in  the  night — how  the  clairvoyant  soul  walks  all 
night  on  the  dangerous  battlements  of  terror  and  mystery — 
and  when  morning  comes,  she  laughs  at  the  fears  she  has 
summoned  ! 

Nepenthe's  room  now  is  next  to  the  doctor's,  her  door  is 
bolted  and  locked,  her  windows  closely  fastened.  She  has 
rolled  up  by  the  door  two  trunks,  and  near  the  edge  of  the 
top  of  the  upper  one  she  has  placed  the  big  dinner  bell,  so 


102  NEPENTHE. 

that  if  the  door  ia  at  all  moved  or  shaken,  the  bell  will  fall, 
and  awaken  all  the  surrounding  sleepers.  She  lays  awake 
a  long,  long  time,  and  at  last  she  sleeps,  but  it  is  a  disturbed 
nightmare  sleep — and  at  midnight  she  could  see  a  figure 
once  more  walking  through  her  room  and  standing  by  her 
bed  ;  but  the  figure  was  no  longer  a  woman — it  wore  a  man's 
slouched  hat. 

As  Mrs.  Wendon  lies  awake  one  night,  talking  to  the  doc 
tor,  she  says, 

"  No  state  of  mind  is  more  rapidly  developed  than  the 
emotion  of  fear.  It  soon  gets  to  be  all  eyes,  all  ears,  all 
brain.  While  Fear  patrols  through  the  soul,  a  sleepless, 
vigilant  sentinel,  every  other  power  seems  dumb  and  quiet. 
All  are  vulnerable  to  Fear's  alarms  at  some  point.  When 
she  springs  the  soul's  loud  watchman's  rattle,  she  calls  to 
her  aid  Dread,  Terror  and  Fright,  the  active,  alert  police  of 
soul.  Every  body  is  afraid  of  something.  I  believe  there 
is  one  little  space  in  every  man's  mind  where  may  be  writ 
ten  '  coward.'  Every  one  is  at  times  troubled,  tempted,  or 
tortured,  harrassed,  harrowed  or  haunted  by  some  constitu 
tional  or  chronic  fear,  which  takes  to  him  the  shape  of  moral 
ghost,  mental  ghost,  spiritual  ghost,  nervous  ghost,  legal 
ghost,  or  hereditary  ghost — and  the  boldest,  when  confront 
ed  with  this  shape  or  shade,  says  to  himself,  '  I  am  afraid.' 
The  greatest,  strongest,  bravest  soul  has  a  morbid  dread,  a 
chronic  fear  of  something — he  calls  it  dislike,  but  he  knows 
it  is  fear." 

"  We  often  find  ourselves,"  said  the  doctor,  "  talking  to 
ourselves  as  if  we  were  two  distinct  beings.  We  argue, 
reason,  and  persuade — promise  and  retract  the  promise,  de 
cide  and  undecide — we  are  sure  of  something,  then  doubt  it 
altogether." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon,  "  bold  young  Faith  and  grim 
old  Fear,  like  two  stout  champions,  seek  each  to  gain  the 
field  of  soul,  and  master  the  other.  Fear  gives  Faith  such  a 
sound  drubbing  we  begin  to  doubt  every  thing,  and  we 
wonder  whether  even  the  great  reel  of  Eternity  will  ever 
wind  up  clear  and  smooth  the  great  snarl  of  facts  and  fan 
cies  in  which  we  find  ourselves  so  strangely,  sadly  entan 
gled — and  then  all  at  once,  as  Faith  stands  up  triumphant 
under  the  cloudless  blue  sky  of  soul,  pressing  her  conquer 
ing  foot  on  the  maimed  Titan  Fear — then  we  sail  along 


NEPENTHE.  103 

through  truth  and  duty's  sea  so  sublimely,  that  daylight, 
moonlight  and  sunlight  gleam  and  flash,  brighten  and  illu 
mine  each  passing  hour." 

Mrs.  Wendon  had  talked  so  long  about  these  things  that 
she  could  not  sleep.  She  lay  awake  a  whole  hour  trying  to 
settle  in  her  mind  some  doubtful  thoughts  of  powers  seen 
and  unseen,  influences  real  and  spiritual.  She  was  so  wide 
awake,  every  sense  seemed  doubly  active,  every  sound  dou 
bly  loud.  The  clock  on  the  mantle  struck  one  ;  the  old 
clock  in  the  hall  struck  one  ;  and  then  the  front  door  bell 
rang  once.  She  awoke  the  doctor,  who  waited  to  answer 
the  summons  till  the  bell  should  ring  again.  But  there  was 
no  more  ringing  that  night.  The  next  night  it  rang  again  at 
just  one  o'clock.  The  doctor  went  to  the  door  ;  no  one  was 
there.  He  looked  up  and  down  the  long  silent  street;  he 
could  see  in  the  clear  soft  moonlight  no  retreating  shadow, 
nor  hear  any  lingering  footfall.  He  latched  and  locked  the 
door,  walked  half  way  up  stairs,  and  the  bell  rang  again  ;  a 
little  louder  and  quicker,  once,  twice,  thrice.  He  hurried 
back  to  the  door,  annoyed  at  the  impertinent  persistency  of 
the  invisible  bell  ringer.  But  no  one  was  there,  nor  was 
any  one  hidden  under  the  steps  near  the  basement  door.  He 
came  in  again,  turned  his  face  to  the  stairs,  and  the  bell 
rang  three  times  more,  louder  than  ever. 

He  looked  out.  No  one  was  visible.  He  stepped  out  on 
the  sidewalk,  looked  up  and  down  and  under  the  steps,  and 
in  the  little  front  yards  of  the  houses  next  door.  Then  he 
examined  the  bell  handle  carefully,  to  see  if  possibly  the 
invisible  bell  ringer  hadn't  fastened  to  it  some  cord  by 
which  it  could  be  rung  while  he  was  secreted  in  some  house 
near.  But  no  such  cord,  hand  or  person  could  be  detected. 
Baffled,  puzzled,  irritated,  excited,  he  closed  the  door  again, 
latching,  locking  and  bolting  it,  saying  to  himself,  "  Let 
them  ring  all  night ;  I'll  not  open  that  door  again."*  Then 
there  was  a  sudden,  loud  and  quick  succession  of  rings,  as 
he  began  to  re-ascend  the  stairs  ;  and  there  was  no  pause, 
no  cessation,  until  he  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs,  where 
stood  Mrs.  Wendon,  peeping  through  the  crack  of  her 
nearly  closed  door,  waiting  in  mute  suspense  for  the  doc 
tor's  re-appearance  with  some  solution  of  the  mystery. 

The  bell  had  at  last  roused  Bridget  from  her  profound 
slumbers  in  the  third  story.  She  was  on  her  knees  praying 


104       .  NEPENTHE. 

to  the  Virgin.      She  was  sure  it  was  Mrs.  Fedurell's  spirit 
ringing  the  bell. 

Mrs.  Fedurell  had  lived  three  doors  below  them,  she  was 
an  intimate  friend  of  Mrs.  Wendon's,  and  a  refined  and 
gifted  woman,  who  had  died  only  last  week  of  consumption. 

Bridget  really  believed  that  she,  now  in  Heaven,  and  of 
course  more  elevated  and  refined  in  her  spiritual  state, 
could  stoop  to  descend  to  the  earth,  and  go  around  ringing 
her  old  neighbor's  bells. 

But  Bridget  was  sure  it  was  Mrs»  Fedurell's  ghost,  and  at 
last  as  she  gained  courage  to  look  through  the  shutters,  she 
was  sure  she  saw  a  light,  and  something  like  a  white  object 
standing  motionless  in  the  moonlight. 

Even  Mrs.  Wendon,  with  her  cooler  head  and  better 
judgment,  began  to  connect  something  a  little  supernatural 
or  mysterious  with  this  unaccountable  ringing,  commencing 
both  nights  at  the  ghostly  hour  of  one. 

The  mystery  continued  for  three  weeks.  Each  night 
about  midnight,  the  bell  would  ring.  Every  nap  was  inter 
rupted,  every  dream  disturbed,  and  one  good  night's  sleep 
impossible. 

No  matter  how  weary  or  sleepy  the  doctor  or  his  wife  or 
Nepenthe  mifht  be,  their  slumber  must  be  rudely  broken. 

Bridget  soon  notified  Mrs.  Wendon  that  she  must  go 
next  Tuesday  when  her  month  was  up,  she  couldn't  stay  in 
such  a  place. 

Bridget  had  informed  all  of  her  dear  particular  friends, 
among  whom  was  every  Catharine,  Bridget  and  Margaret- in 
the  neighborhood,  of  the  reason  of  her  leaving.  She  had 
told  them  in  vivid,  graphic  colors,  of  the  nightly  bell  ring 
ing — the  light  and  the  ghost. 

Mrs.  Wendon  began  to  think  it  would  be  difficult  for  her 
to  secure  any  more  good  help,  as  all  the  girls  in  the  neigh 
borhood  looked  up  at  the  house  and  whispered  to  each  other 
as  they  passed  it,  as  if  it  were  really  haunted. 

The  thing  began  to  be  intolerable,  as  the  boys  began  to 
say  as  they  passed — "  Did  you  know  that  house  was 
haunted  ?" 

Bridget  said  that  the  dogs  stood  before  the  house,  and 
stared,  and  barked,  and  ho^yled  at  night,  when  the  bell  rang. 

One  old  lady  in  the  neiguborhood  thought  that  the  ghosts 
of  some  people  who  had  once  lived  there  had  come  back  to 


NEPENTHE.  105 

disturb  the  house,  and  that  each  of  these  gaunt,  strange 
looking  dogs,  was  a  howling  medium  for  these  unfortunate 
unhappy  ghosts. 

Mrs.  Wendon  began  to  imagine  that  everybody  looked 
up  strangely  at  the  house  and  peered  curiously  into  the 
windows  as  they  passed.  A  story  of  a  haunted  house  had 
always  been  to  her  the  most  foolish  and  ignorant  of  super 
stitions  ;  yet  as  that  ringing  continued,  she  wanted  to  move 
out  of  the  place,  the  noise,  notoriety  and  gossip  were  becom- 
so  intolerable  ;  but  the  doctor  didn't  like  to  be  rung  out  of 
his  own  door  in  that  summary  style,  and  be  condoled  with 
forever  after,  as  a  fugitive  from  a  haunted  house.  So  one 
day  he  persuaded  Caesar,  a  trusty  colored  man,  a  servant  of 
one  of  his  friends,  to  come  and  watch  his  door  for  him  a  few 
nights,  promising  to  pay  him  liberally. 

Cassar  declared  that  nothing  could  frighten  him  ;  neither 
ghost,  goblins  nor  the  devil — for,  said  he,  "  Lor  bress  me, 
Massa,  how  can  de  debbel  hurt  poor  black  man  who  neber 
done  nuffin  wrong." 

The  doctor  retired,  having  great  confidence  in  the  courage 
of  the  new  detective. 

Caesar  watched  faithfully,  inside  and  out,  now  with  the  door 
a  little  open,  and  then  with  it  closed. 

He  listened  for  the  least  noise,  and  suddenly,  about  one, 
the  bell  rang  once.  Caesar  was  startled  :  then  it  rang  twice — 
he  did  grow  a  little  more  startled.  He  seized  the  door  and 
opened  it ;  the  bell  rang  still,  but  as  he  looked  at  the  bell 
handle  it  did  not  move.  Ring,  ring,  ring,  it  went  again ; 
but  the  bell  handle  never  moved  at  all.  Just  then,  as  if  by 
some  bodily  agitation,  the  door  was  thrown  wide  open,  and 
as  the  lamp  light  on  the  other  side  of  fehe  street,  interrupted 
by  the  large  limbs  of  the  trees  swaying  backwards  and 
forwards,  sent  into  the  hall  behind  him  a  host  of  trooping 
shadows,  to  Caesar's  excited  fancy  they  were  a  band  of 
fearful  ghosts. 

Without  stopping  to  look  longer  behind  him,  he  started 
and  ran,  turning  neither  to  the  right  or  left,  chased  by  a  big 
black  barking  dog,  who  deemed  it  his  duty  to  run  because  he 
saw  some  one  else  running.  A  policeman,  thinking  the 
bareheaded,  flying  Caesar  an  escaping  burglar,  joined  in  the 
pursuit,  till  Caesar,  just  as  he  came  to  the  corner  where  he 
must  cross  to  reach  his  master's  house,  tripped  and  fell  over 

6* 


106  NEPENTHE. 

the  curb-stone,  bathing  eyes,  mouth  and  nose,  in  the  puddle 
of  muddy  water,  which  was  meandering  along  the  gutter. 
Without  pausing  to  brush  the  mud  from  his  broadcloth,  he 
ran  on  faster  than  ever,  out-distancing  the  pursuing  police 
man  and  dog — and  rushing  into  his  master's  basement  door, 
which  happened  to  be  open,  as  Dinah  and  Rose  had  had  some 
company  pretty  late  that  night,  and  they  were  just  kissing 
their  fond  adieus  by  the  open  door  : 

"  Caesar  has  had  a  spree,  Caesar  has  had  a  spree,"  said 
Dinah,  as  the  gaslight  fell  full  on  Caesar's  bold,  bare  head  and 
soiled  coat  and  dirty  face,  "  Caesar  has  had  a  spree." 

But  he  hurried  by  her,  not  minding  her  bantering,  nor 
stopping  until  he  found  himself  in  his  own  bed,  and  covered 
up  his  head  with  the  welcome  and  familiar  bed-clothes. 

His  master's  grave  inquiries  the  next  morning  about  his 
suspicious  plight  the  night  before  only  got  from  him  the 
brief  answer.  "Haunted  house,  Massa  ;  haunted  house." 

Dr.  Wendon  was  awake,  and  hearing  no  more  opening 
and  shutting  of  the  front  door,  though  the  bell  kept  on  ring 
ing,  he  went  softly  down  stairs  to  see  how  investigations 
were  progressing  ;  but  no  Caesar  was  there.  The  door  was 
wide  open  and  there  lay  on  the  upper  stone  step  Caesar's  old 
hat :  and  in  spite  of  everything,  the  words  came  into  the  doc 
tor's  mind,  "  I  come  to  bury  Caesar  ;  not  to  praise  him." 

His  inquiries  of  Caesar  the  next  day  about  his  last  night's 
adventures  met  with  no  answer.  He  could  get  nothing  out 
of  him,  only  he  could  see  he  had  been  in  some  way  thoroughly 
frightened. 

The  next  night  Patrick,  a  bold,  smart,  stout  young  Irish 
man,  who  had  worked  a  great  deal  for  Dr.  Wendon,  offered 
to  keep  watch.  He  said  he  had  seen  ghosts  in  the  "  ould 
counthry,"  and  he  wasn't  afraid  of  any  spirits.  He  took  his 
post  by  the  door,  having  in  his  pocket  a  bottle  of  fourth 
proof,  from  which  occasionally  he  refreshed  himself  by  tak 
ing  copious  draughts.  At  one  o'clock  the  bell  rang.  Pat 
rick  looked.  The  bell-handle  didn't  stir,  but  the  wire 
twitched  back  and  forth  violently. 

"  By  jabers,"  said  the  Irishman,  "  who  is  afraid  of  yer 
murtherin'  noise  ?"  and  stooping  down,  he  tried  to  seize 
hold  of  the  lower  part  of  the  wire  ;  but  he  suddenly  fell  back 
on  the  floor,  shaking  the  house  as  he  fell.  The  spirits  within 


NEPENTHE.  107 

and  the  spirits  without  had  conquered  the  redoubtable  Pat 
rick. 

As  Dr.  Wendon  rushed  down  stairs,  Patrick  said,  in  a 
hoarse,  terrified  whisper,  "  I  am  kilt  !  I  am  kilt!  The 
murtherin'  ghosts  have  shook  me  all  to  pieces  intirely  !" 

Dr.  Wendon,  as  the  bell  rang  again,  noticed  the  lower 
part  of  the  wire  twitching  violently,  and  by  some  sudden  in 
stinct  or  inspiration,  he  said,  "  "Tis  rung  from  below.  Some 
one  is  in  the  cellar.  I'll  stop  that  performance." 

He  seized  his  pistol,  while  his  wife  took  hold  of  his  arm, 
begging  him  not  to  go  down  in  the  cellar,  as  she  was  afraid 
to  stay  up  stairs  without  him,  and  afraid  to  follow  him  into 
the  lower  regions.  But  Dr.  Wendon  was  in  that  fast,  fierce, 
and  furious  state  of  mind,  that  nothing  could  keep  him  back. 
He  was  ready  to  face  a  troop  of  ghosts,  a  den  of  lions,  or  a 
legion  of  devils,  rather  than  be  foiled,  puzzled,  baffled,  tor 
mented  longer. 

With  a  lamp  in  one  hand,  and  his  pistol  in  the  other,  he 
entered  the  deep,  dark,  dismal  cellar,  where  for  a  moment 
the  most  profound  silence  reigned  ; — and  there  before  his 
eyes  were  three  formidable  members  of  a  well-known  band 
of  burglars  and  housebreakers.  No  law  had  yet  been  made 
or  enforced  powerful  enough  to  detect,  imprison,  punish  or 
banish  these  merciless,  successful,  daring  burglars,  always 
armed  to  the  teeth. 

The  Doctor  stood  motionless,  his  pistol  powerless  in  his 
hand,  as  he  faced  the  villains,  whose  name  is  a  public  and 
private  terror.  But  he  did  not  fire  his  pistol,  first,  because 
it  might  alarm  his  wife  :  second,  because  the  weapon  didn't 
seem  adequate  to  the  occasion. 

No — the  Doctor  didn't  raise  his  pistol  to  destroy  those  three 
— rats,  because  he  might  need  it  more  at  some  other  time, 
though  they  had  dared  to  interrupt  his  midnight  slumbers 
by  dancing  on  his  bell-wire,  and  hanging  by  their  teeth  from 
the  wire,  so  as  to  produce  those  vibrations — highly  gratify 
ing  to  them,  as  their  first  concert,  as  they  were  a  family  so 
fond  of  music. 

By  mere  accident,  on  the  first  night,  while  one  of  their 
number  was  engineering  across  the  beams,  he  chanced  to 
touch  the  bell-wire  once,  and  hearing  the  ring,  was  a  little 
alarmed  ;  but  seeing  no  harm  come  of  it,  they  had  all,  night 
after  night,  commenced  a  concert  in  earnest,  quite  delighted 


108  NEPENTHE. 

at  their  repeated  successful  performances,  little  dreaming 
of  the  thrilling  effect  upon  the  audience  up  stairs. 

"  To-night  is  their  grand  carnival,''  thought  the  doctor, 
as  he  went  back  up  stairs,  and  finally  succeeded  in  helping 
Patrick  out  of  "  the  haunted  house." 

Mrs.  Wendon,  meantime,  sat  crouching  in  a  corner  up 
stairs,  afraid  to  stir,  and  afraid  the  doctor  might  never  come 
back,  as  she  heard  nothing  of  him  and  no  more  of  the  bell- 
ringing.  As  he  returned,  at  last,  alone,  unarmed,  and  un 
harmed,  with  a  curious  smile  on  his  face,  and  as  he  saw  her 
so  pale,  motionless  and  terrified,  he  burst  out  into  a  merry, 
ringing  laugh,  and  laughed  away  as  if  he  would  never  stop, 
while  she  sat  there,  half  frightened  to  death.  Finally  she 
began  to  cry,  thinking  the  doctor  had  lost  his  reason  from 
some  sudden  shock,  or  fright,  or  he  wouldn't  stand  there 
laughing  like  a  fool,  while  she  sat  mute,  with  a  face  white 
as  any  ghost. 

"  Don't — don't  laugh  so,  Walter  !"  she  said,  bursting  into 
tears  again. 

Ten  minutes  after,  had  you  stood  at  the  key-hole  of  that 
door,  you  might  have  heard  two  voices  mingling  in  convul 
sive,  merry  laughter,  as  the  door-bell  rang  on  thirty  times 
more  that  night.  The  doctor  called  that  night  forever  after 
"  The  benefit  night  of  the  liodent  family." 

Bridget  was  still  on  her  knees,  praying.  She  still  be 
lieved  she  saw  and  heard  the  mysterious,  ghostly  bell-ringer. 
Tired  out  at  last,  she  covered  her  head  with  the  bed-clothes 
and  fell  asleep,  about  four  o'clock,  and  dreamed  of  the 
ghostly  light  shining  in  her  room. 

The  mystery  was  at  last  explained,  but  Caesar  always  in 
sisted  upon  it  that  he  saw  a  troop  of  ghosts  in  the  hall,  and 
Patrick  never  would  give  it  up  but  that  it  was  a  ghostly 
shock  he  received  when  he  fell  on  the  floor  in  the  hall,  and 
even  the  doctor  admitted  that  it  was  probably  the  effect  of 
/some  spiritual  influence — the  spirits  had  something  to  do 
with  it. 

In  the  morning,  when  Bridget  told  the  doctor  all  about 
the  wonderful  light,  and  described  vividly  and  graphically 
the  white  shadowy  ghost  which  she  saw  under  the  window, 
he  told  her  that  it  was  not  one  white  ghost,  but  three  black 
ones  ;  and  that  he  saw  them  in  the  cellar,  ringing  the  bell. 

"  Faith,"  said  she,  with  a  sudden  wise  look  and  a  sur- 


NEPENTHE.  109 

prised  stare,  "  I  was  sure  the  Evil  One  had  something  to  do 
with  it ;"  and  she  went  off  very  slowly  down  into  the  cellar 
to  get  her  coal  and  kindling-wood,  fearfully  afraid  of  encoun 
tering  the  "  three  black  ghosts  in  the  cellar." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE   WENDONS    TALK    ABOUT    THE   OPERA. 

"  Make  love  in  tropes,  in  bombast  break  his  heart,  - 
In  turn  and  simile  resign  his  breath, 
And  rhyme  and  quibble  in  the  pains  of  death." — TICKELL. 

MRS.  WENDON  sees  that  the  doctor  is  growing  pale,  care 
worn,  depressed.  She  can  imagine  no  adequate  cause.  His 
practice  is  increasing  and  successful,  his  professional  posi 
tion  high.  She  fears  he  is  injuring  himself  by  close  confine 
ment.  Change  and  recreation,  even  a  little  pleasurable  ex 
citement,  might  do  him  good.  She  urges  him  to  go  occa 
sionally  to  places  of  amusement — they  have  not  been  to  an 
opera  in  a  long  time.  It  might  please  Nepenthe — she  has 
never  been,  and  she  needs  change,  too  ;  something  to  divert 
her  thoughts  from  the  recent  mysterious  attempt  on  her  life. 
She  is  now  old  enough  to  enjoy  and  appreciate  fine  music. 
So  she  talks  to  the  doctor  one  morning,  as  he  rises  from  the 
table,  leaving  his  untasted  coffee  and  neglected  omelet. 

He  is  not  musically  gifted  or  musically  appreciative.  He 
laughs  a  little  about  this  foolish  worship  of  imported  prirna 
donnas,  but  promises  to  go  that  evening  on  Nepenthe's  ac 
count,  not  on  his  own — he  is  getting  on  well  enough. 

Mrs.  Wendon  reads  from  the  morning  Herald  "  The  fare 
well  Concert  of  Madame  Geztimer,  who  is  in  opera  again. 
It  is  not  her  farewell,  after  all.  She  is  giving  us  four  nights 
of  opera,  and  charming  nights  they  are,  too.  We  have  never 
heard  finer  music — a  different  opera  each  night — or  seen 
larger  or  more  fashionable  audiences.  Her  little  season  is 
a  decided  success." 

"  How  did  you  like  the  opera  last  night  ?"  said  Mrs.  Wen- 
don  to  Nepenthe  the  next  morning. 

"  I  am  no  judge  of  music,  and  then  I  took  my  novitiate  in 


110  NEPENTHE. 

opera  going  last  night,"  said  Nepenthe.  "  You  understand 
all  those  scientific  trills,  rolls  and  quavers  of  which  I  am  so 
ignorant.  I  sat  last  evening  nearly  three  hours.  The  sing 
ing  was  wonderful.  I  might  practice  all  the  hours  of  three 
lives,  and  I  never  could  sing  one  of  those  trilling,  warbling, 
soaring,  flying,  swelling,  vanishing  strains.  Yet  no  mortal, 
in  exquisite  joy  or  overwhelming  grief,  warbles  like  that. 
Joy  is  an  outburst — a  gush — not  an  elaborate  flourish.  Lov 
ing,  fighting,  heart-aching,  heart-breaking,  were  all  won 
derfully  sung. 

"  Think  in  real  life  of  contending  armies  of  real  men,  with 
real  swords,  standing  and  patiently  waiting  for  a  man  to 
sing  out  a  petition  for  some  captive's  release.  Such  artistic 
grief  is  never  seen — such  sudden  terror  or  joy  is  never  sung 
out.  The  singing  is  wonderful,  but  I  am  continually  draw 
ing  the  startling  contrast  between  operatic  representation 
and  the  real  deeds  of  real  people." 

"  I  cannot  even  work  myself  up  into  a  pity  for  a  woman," 
says  the  doctor,  coming  up  just  then,  "  who  sings  out  her 
broken  heart  in  such  elaborate  strains  ;  and  if  a  lover  makes 
his  avowal  in  the  same  artistic  melody,  I  always  feel  like 
saying,  '  If  you  love  her,  why  don't  you  walk  up  or  kneel 
down  and  say  so  like  a  human  man,  and  not  stand  there 
singing  your  heart  out  like  an  amateur  ?'  I  know  you  go  to 
the  opera  to  hear  the  fine  singing,  and  see  the  wonderful 
power  of  music  to  express  every  variety  of  feeling  and  ac 
tion.  The  heart's  best  feelings  are  never  in  full  dress  ;  this 
idea  of  giving  love  and  regret  the  full  toilet  they  get  in  ope 
ratic  scenes,  is  to  me  unnatural.  The  charm  of  tragedy  is 
in  making  one,  for  the  time,  feel  that  the  characters  are 
real.  These  groans  and  sighs  and  battles  and  deaths  are  all 
well  sung,  but  if  I  were  very  angry  with  a  man  I  don't  think 
I  should  stand  up  before  him  and  sing  at  him. 

"  The  thing  I  dislike  most  is  this  operatic  death.  Young 
and  beautiful  women  will  sing  their  disappointed  love,  their 
failing  health,  their  aching,  loving,  breaking  heart,  with 
pale  face,  dishevelled  hair,  and  white  shadowy  garments — 
coughing,  gasping,  trembling,  fainting  with  the  airy  breath 
of  fleeting  song.  We  listen  to  the  last  musical  sigh,  we 
catch  the  faint  echo  of  the  last  warble,  till  the  last  low  life 
note  dies  on  the  hushed  lips  ;  and  then,  a  moment  after,  re 
surrectionized  from  the  song-death,  the  singer  comes  out 


I 

«*•¥ 


NEPENTHE.  Ill 

and  moves  off  the  stage,  brightly  smiling,  pleasantly  bowing, 
and  gracefully  picking  up  showers  of  falling  flowers.  The 
farce  comes  so  soon  after  the  death  tragedy. 

"  I  think  the  death  scene  should  be  the  last  act  of  life — 
when  the  last  curtain  falls.  I  don't  like  this  make-believe 
failing  and  dying.  I  may  speak  professionally.  Wasn't  it 
horrible,  when  the  cholera  was  raging  in  Paris,  the  people 
were  amusing  themselves  iu  the  theatre  in  acting  death  by 
the  cholera  in  all  its  fearful  stages  and  mortal  agonies  1" 

"  But  did  you  hear  the  squeaking  tenor  ?  Why  will  peo 
ple  insist  on  playing  the  part  ot  which  they  know  nothing  ?" 

"  I  believe  it  is  the  way  with  most  of  us,"  said  Mrs.  Wen- 
don.  "  We  are  all  apt  to  think  we  can  do  some  one  thing 
well,  in  which  we  are  really  deficient.  The  very  faults  we 
have,  so  glaring  in  the  eyes  of  others,  we  think  are  only 
respectable,  comfortable,  decent  peculiarities,  rather  be 
coming  than  otherwise." 

"  But  how  in  the  world  are  we  ever  going  to  know  what 
we  are,  or  what  we  can  do  ?"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Every  man  I  have  well  known,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon,  "  is 
sure  he  can  do  something  quite  well,  of  which  he  really 
knows  nothing.  One  man  is  very  deaf — so  deaf  we  all  have 
to  scream  out  our  questions  and  answers  when  talking  with 
him  ;  he  says  he  isn't  much  deaf  after  all,  he  can  hear  most 
as  well  as  anybody  if  we  only  speak  distinctly.  My  old 
aunt  Jane  is  quite  sure  she  can  see  without  her  spectacles, 
almost  as  well  as  ever — she  only  wears  them  to  rest  her  eyes 
•  —but  she  is  almost  as  blind  as  a  bat.  Her  husband  thinks 
he  is  a  very  young  looking  man,  as  smart  as  most  young 
folks,  and  can  do  more  work  in  a  day  now  than  any  young 
man  ;  yet  he  is  nearly  a  cripple,  has  a  trembling  voice,  tot 
tering  step,  and  is  almost  toothless.  One  gentleman  who 
wrote  the  dullest  essays  I  ever  heard,  said  he  thought  he 
could  do  one  thing  well — that  was,  write  essays.  He  made 
the  remark  to  his  wife,  and  I  overheard  him.  She  was  the 
homeliest  woman  I  ever  knew,  and  she  said  to  me  once 
when  we  were  talking  about  looks,  she  was  '  always  thank 
ful  for  one  thing — that  she  was  made  at  least  good-looking.' 
A  lady  once  brought  me  some  poetry  of  her  own  composition 
to  get  my  opinion  of  it.  It  wag  about  cold  stars,  fair  flowers, 
and  pale  moons.  She  said  it  was  always  easy  for  her  to 
write  poetry — she  never  had  to  fix  it  over  ;  it  always  came 


112  NEPENTHE. 

right.  She  would  string  words  together  of  all  sizes,  shapes 
and  accents,  and  if  there  was  a  jingle  at  the  end  it  was 
poetry." 

As  Nepenthe  went  out  of  the  room,  the  doctor  said, 
"  How  Nepenthe  has  changed  !  She  is  quite  young  to 
think  so  originally  and  speak  so  frankly  about  something 
she  has  seen  and  heard  but  once — but  she  has  a  wonderful 
ear  for  music.  I  have  engaged  Signor  Venini  to  give  her 
instruction.  He  is  an  incomparable  artist,  and  she  has  alrea 
dy  an  exquisite  touch  ;  but  those  Scotch  songs  she  sings 
charmingly.  I  think  she  has  the  sweetest  voice  I  ever 
heard — it  is  sweet  as  a  lute,  rich  as  a  harp,  soft  as  a  flute  ; 
why,  Minnie,  if  we  had  searched  the  world  over,  we  couldn't 
have  found  a  more  gifted  soul  or  affectionate  heart." 


CHAPTER  XV. 


IMPULSES THE    ARREST. 

"  One  thread  of  kindness  draws  more  than  a  hundred  yoke  of  oxen." 

TUSCAN  PROVERB. 

"  Edel  sey  der  Mensch, 
Hiilfreich  und  gut." 

GOETHE. 

"  THERE  are  some  things  I  never  told  you,  Minnie,"  said 
the  .doctor  one  morning.  "  When  I  took  Nepenthe  from  the 
hospital  the  nurse  whispered  to  me  that  she  was  of  low  fam 
ily  and  doubtful  origin.  I  wouldn't  prejudice  you,  so  I 
kept  it  to  myself.  I  believe  with  a  French  author,  that  all 
our  first  benevolent  impulses  are  good,  generous,  heroic — 
reflection  weakens  and  kills  them.  The  soul  first  speaks, 
and  the  language  is  that  of  love  and  virtue  :  the  intellect 
reasons  afterwards,  and  its  reasonings  are  more  favorable  to 
matter  than  the  soul. 

"  I  was  told  when  I  took  Nepenthe  from  the  hospital,  that 
I  was  acting  solely  from  impulse,  and  that  impulse  was  a 
very  imprudent  guide  ;  but  I  have  done  nothing  kind  or 
generous  in  my  life  without  yielding  to  the  promptings  of 
eorne  noble  impulse.  There  is  more  good  crushed  in  the 


NEPENTHE.  113 

bud  by  resisting  good  impulses,  than  evil  prematurely  done 
by  acting  too  suddenly  upon  them.  There  isn't  much  dan 
ger  of  our  ever  being  too  good,  too  kind,  or  too  generous. 

"  Many  a  wrinkle  of  care  you  can  smooth  out  clear  and 
beautiful,  if  you  seize  upon  the  impulse  while  it  is  warm 
and  fresh,  and  press  life's  rough  seams  down.  How  much 
happier  and  more  benevolent  would  I  have  been,  had  I  al 
ways  acted  promptly  upon  my  first,  best,  warmest  feelings, 
without  arguing  and  reasoning,  and  wondering  whether  after 
all  it  would  be  best — would  it  pay,  was  it  prudent,  expedi 
ent  ?" 

"  These  noble  impulses,"  said  Mrs.  Wendon,  "  are  like 
the  little  Artesian  wells  I  used  to  see  in  California — an  in 
visible  hand  penetrates  the  troubled  strata  of  the  soil,  till 
from  its  depths  upwells  a  fountain  pure  and  sparkling,  invig 
orating  the  whole  valley  of  the  soul.  One  of  these  Artesian 
impulses  jetting  out,  may  freshen  and  beautify  hundreds  of 
drooping  thoughts  and  withering  hopes." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "  impulses  are  the  first  stamps 
from  the  mint  of  thought,  clearest  and  deepest,  the  most  du 
rable  on  the  leaves  of  the  unfolding  soul,  like  the  figures  on 
the  first  sheets  of  our  quires  of  cream-laid  paper  ;  and  the 
original  pictures  of  great  masters,  clearer  and  bolder  than 
the  weak  after  copies  and  feeble  imitations,  they  flow  sponta 
neously  from  the  creative  soul,  and  are  not  mechanically 
struck  off  on  steel  or  wood. 

"  Impulse  is  the  great  artist  of  the  soul's  studio  ;  with 
marvellous  dash  and  sweep  of  hand,  she  sketches  the  out 
lines  of  great  deeds  for  us  to  execute  through  our  lives  full 
lengths,  those  beautiful  pictures  of  genial  kindness  and  cor 
dial  benevolence,  which  illustrate  the  long  story  of  our  dull 
common  lives,  are  engraven  by  her  skilful  hand." 

I  beg  your  pardon,  reader,  for  keeping  you  standing  spir 
itual,  hat  in  hand,  so  long  in  the  vestibule  of  my  story,  list 
ening  to  the  doctor's  talk  about  impulse,  but  poor  impulse  is 
eo  often  berated  and  abused,  censured  and  maligned,  as  a 
wrong-doer  and  mischief-maker,  I  always  wait  patiently  and 
thankfully  when  I  hear  her  praised  or  truly  valued. 

"  The  greatest  things  we  do,"  added  the  doctor,  "  we  feel 
stirred  up  as  by  some  oracular  voice  within  to  do  suddenly 
and  successfully.  Nepenthe  is  a  child  of  impulse,  and  I  be 
lieve  she  had  a  refined,  accomplished,  and  virtuous  mother. 


114  NEPENTHE. 

If  a  man  is  ever  so  great  and  good,  and  his  wife  ignorant  or 
commonplace,  you  rarely  find  the  child  above  mediocrity  in 
appearance,  taste  or  talent.  People  say  so  much  about 
great  men  not  having  distinguished  children  ;  they  forget 
that  inferiority  and  mediocrity  may  be  traced  to  an  inferior 
or  commonplace  mother.  Nepenthe's  gifts  and  graces  were 
not  acquired  from  recent  associations,  but  are  evidently  en 
tailed  by  nature  and  improved  by  very  early,  correct,  and 
careful  training.  Her  father  may  have  been  low,  dishonor- 
ble,  cruel — there  might  have  been  a  mock  marriage,  or 
some  thing  of  that  sort.  I  have  no  means  of  finding  out, 
but  Nepenthe's  mother  could  hardly  have  been  guilty  of  an 
ignoble  action,  and  yet  I  have  some  information  which  almost 
proves  she  was  unfortunate  and  imprudent.  I  wish  I  could 
solve  the  mystery  about  Nepenthe's  earliest  history.  I 
knew  I  should  love  her,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  arose  and 
walked  back  and  forth,  "  but  I  didn't  mean  to  draw  her  quite 
so  close  to  my  heart,  but  she  is  now  very  dear,  and  I  would 
like  to  take  this  one  young  life  and  cheer  and  strengthen  it 
all  through.  I  can  do  more  good  by  watching  this  young, 
bright  soul,  moving  on  to  its  zenith  without  a  chilling  tem 
pest  or  obscuring  cloud,  than  by  throwing  miscellaneous 
crumbs  of  kindness  to  every  passing  beggared  soul,  whose 
destiny  is  cut  in  stone,  whose  happiness  is  hopeless.  To 
take  a  life  despised,  circumscribed,  care-encumbered,  and 
make  it  happy,  would  give  me  more  sublime  delight  than  all 
the  lo  Paeans  of  transient  fame." 

Nepenthe  had  been  sent  to  the  post-office,  but  it  had  com 
menced  raining,  and  she  came  back  for  an  umbrella  just  in 
time  to  overhear  the  remark  about  her  father. 

"  My  mother,  my  gentle  mother,  has  any  one  reproached 
her?"  thought  she.  "I  know  she  was  good  and  noble,  but 
why  did  she  never  mention  my  father's  name  ?  Why  weep 
so  when  she  received  any  letters  1  Does  Dr.  Wendon  fear 
to  love  me  ?  Does  he  attach  disgrace  to  my  name  ?  Is  this 
why  he  so  often  sighs  when  he  speaks  to  me  so  kindly  ?" 

While  the  doctor  is  out  that  afternoon,  Mrs.  Wendon 
looks  over  his  wardrobe.  The  black  vest  has  a  rip  in  the 
pocket.  She  empties  the  pocket  to  mend  it,  and  there  falls 
out  a  folded  paper,  part  of  a  printed  document,  which,  with 
a  pardonable  curiosity,  she  reads,  and  learns  the  probable 
cause  of  the  doctor's  late  absorbed  and  troubled  manner. 


V 

NEPENTHE.  116 

She  finds  also  a  written  note  in  the  corner  of  the  pocket  with 
severe  threats  of  immediate  arrest.  Her  honored,  high- 
minded  husband  arrested  for  fraud,  for  breach  of  contract ! 

This  letter  of  Dr.  Wendon's  she  reads  with  surprise  and 
alarm. 

"  DEAR  SIR.  : — I  write  this  communication  to  prevent  any 
additional  loss  to  you,  and  to  suggest  by  what  means  that 
loss  can  be  repaired.  I  understood  you  to  say  that  you 
would  be  content  if  your  securities  were  restored.  You  de 
clared  to  me  if  these  securities  were  not  replaced,  you 
would  proceed  against  me,  1st — civilly  at  common  law  ;  2nd 
— criminally,  by  a  police  warrant  for  false  pretences ;  3rd. — 
ecclesiastically,  by  presenting  the  case  to  my  pastor  ;  4th — 
domestically,  by  communications  with  my  wife  ;  and  5th — by 
securing  the  publication  of  the  matters  between  us  in  the 
periodical  of  a  person  whom  you  suppose  to  be  my  bitter 
enemy. 

"  You  know  very  well  that  a  threat  is  the  weapon  of  a 
woman,  and  that  bluster  and  bravado  are  the  tactics  of  a  ruf 
fian.  Frcm  your  position,  from  your  education,  from  your 
association  in  youth  with  British  officers,  and  in  maturer 
years  with  the  finest  minds,  I  cannot  interpret  any  thing 
said  or  done  by  you  in  that  direction.  Your  object  is  to 
get  back  your  money,  instead  of  adding  to  your  losses.  Put 
ting  me  in  prison  would  not  do  that.  Prejudicing  me  in  the 
estimation  of  a  minister  would  not  do  that,  especially  as  ha 
has  no  ecclesiastical  control  over  me.  Communicating  with 
my  wife  would  not  do  that,  and  as  she  has  never  injured 
you,  there  can  be  no  adequate  cause  for  such  a  step." 

The  rest  of  this  document  had  been  torn  off  and  destroyed, 
so  Mrs.  Wendon  could  read  no  more.  Her  husband  did  not 
come  home  that  night,  but  sent  her  a  note,  saying  that  he 
had  left  town  suddenly  on  business,  and  would  be  home  on 
Saturday.  Saturday  came,  and  he  came  not,  and  Monday 
and  Tuesday  passed  away. 

Late  on  Wednesday  evening  he  came,  tired,  a  little  lame, 
and  with  one  hand  bound  up  and  a  bruised  head. 

"  I  have  had  some  trouble  in  the  mines,"  said  he,  as  he 
sat  down  weary  in  his  easy  chair.  "  There  was  a  riot 
among  the  workmen.  They  laid  it  to  the  agent;  but  I  think 
some  thing  else  was  at  the  bottom  of  it.  They  didn't  act 
like  men  ;  they  acted  like  fiends.  That  poor  little  colored 


116  NEPENTHE. 


boy,  Thomas,  who  has  made  himself  so  useful  to  me,  they 
rushed  upon  him  without  the  least  provocation  and  inhu 
manly  murdered  him,  dashing  out  his  brains  on  the  road  ; 
they  threw  volleys  of  stones  until  every  window-pane  was 
shattered  in  fragments.  I  was  the  object  of  their  personal 
fury  and  violence,  but  I  escaped  with  only  a  bruised  head 
and  lame  hand.  I'll  be  over  it  in  a  day  or  two,"  said  he, 
cheerfully,  as  he  saw  how  troubled  his  wife  looked.  "  It 
was  all  quiet  when  I  came  away.  There  is  a  large  guard 
of  soldiers  there  now.  The  ringleaders  are  arrested.  I 
had  a  store  there  that  they  destroyed  ;  they  have  carried  off 
or  destroyed  all  the  coal  stored  there  ;  they  tore  up  part  of 
the  railroad  track  ;  they  seemed  to  have  some  grudge  against 
every  person  in  any  way  connected  with  the  mines." 

Mrs.  Wendon  said  no  more  about  the  mines  ;  but  after 
supper,  as  they  sat  together  on  the  sofa,  she  said,  "  I  really 
felt  afraid,  during  the  presence  of  that  epidemic  last  summer, 
that  you  might  be  taken  away,  and  the  world  would  be  so 
desolate  without  you ;" — and  then,  rising  suddenly  and 
putting  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissing  him,  first  on 
one  cheek,  then  on  lips,  eyes,  cheek  and  forehead,  she 
exclaimed,  "  You  dear  old  bear  " — as  she  frequently  called 
him,  as  she  put  her  hands  on  his  face,  one  on  one  side  and 
one  on  the  other  ;  then,  turning  his  head  upwards  towards 
her,  "  You  dear  old  bear,  you  are  locking  up  some 
thing  in  this  head  away  from  me  ;  and  do  you  know  I  acci 
dentally  found  the  key  of  your  secret  in  your  pocket  the 
other  morning  ?  There  was  a  rip  in  your  black  vest,  and  to 
mend  it  well  I  first  emptied  the  pocket,  and  I  saw  aj>rinted 
document  there  giving  W.  W.  Wendon's  name  considerable 
prominence.  Now,  Walter,"  said  she,  in  a  cheerful  voice, 
"  don't  let  any  pecuniary  matter  prey  so  heavily  upon  your 
spirits.  You  told  me  /  was  your  fortune,  when  you  married 
me,  and  nothing  can  really  impoverish  us  while  we  have 
each  other.  You  need  not  explain,  though  you  said  nothing 
to  me  about  it.  Your  motives  were  the  purest  and  best. 
It  would  weary  and  annoy  you  to  repeat  them  now.  Never 
mind  about  that  portion  of  my  fortune  you  have  lost ;  but 
listen,  here  is  something  I  was  just  reading  when  you  came 
in  :  '  What  a  prodigious  science  is  that  which  can  say  to  man, 
If  thou  dost  such  a  thing,  such  a  thing  will  happen  to  thee. 
Then  again,  The  reaction  of  riches  is  poverty  of  the  soul,  and 


NEPENTHE.  117 

bodily  infirmities.  Prosperity  has  its  root  in  man  himself: 
it  is  the  want  of  his  being,  the  product  of  his  intelligence, 
the  link  of  society,  the  right  of  labor.'  You  acted  as  you 
thought  best,  and  don't  be  troubled  about  that  three  thou 
sand  of  mine.  You  have  learned  experience  in  this  specu 
lation.  In  the  matter  of  investing  there  is  nothing  like 
experience,  and  there  is  no  great  good  acquired  without 
some  risk ;  but  I  don't  see  how  you  failed  in  this  coal-mine 
speculation,  after  all." 

"  Failure,"  said  the  doctor,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "  ia 
common  with  all  speculations  where  one  looks  for  large 
profits  ;  but  in  this  particular  instance  I  wonder  now  since 
I  can  be  so  frank  with  you,  that  I  could  not  have  foreseen 
the  result.  You  know  that  in  all  mines — whether  of  gold, 
silver,  lead,  iron  or  coal,  that  you  may  strike  a  vein  of  infe 
rior  quality  :  just  so  it  was  in  this  instance.  I  had  raked 
and  scraped  all  the  money  together  I  could  get  by  borrowing 
and  mortgaging,  and  when  I  could  get  no  more  money  by 
these  means  I  induced  others  to  invest  their  money  in  the 
mines  also.  We  set  the  miners  at  work.  After  mining  a 
few  tons,  which  sold  well  in  the  market  the  workmen  struck 
for  higher  wages.  We  refused  till  their  starvation  and  our 
own  want  of  means  compelled  us  on  both  sides  to  compro 
mise  the  matter  by  paying  a  little  more,  and  when  we  got 
them  to  work  again  winter  came  on  and  the  canal  stopped  : 
no  more  coal  could  go  to  market  till  spring.  We  kept  the 
miners  at  work,  however,  getting  out  several  thousand,  tons  ; 
but  navigation  opened  unusually  late,  the  spring  came,  and 
when  we  sent  a  cargo  to  market  we  found  to  our  surprise 
that  the  coal  was  of  an  inferior  quality  :  we  had  struck  a 
poor  vein,  and  whether  the  men  and  their  dependants  had 
known  of  it  or  not,  they  certainly  were  interested  in  not 
disclosing  the  fact  to  us  ;  but  if  we  could  not  sell  the  coal 
we  certainly  could  not  pay  the  men  ;  and  then  they  resorted 
to  the  law — for  by  the  law  they  had  a  lien  upon  the  mine 
for  their  wages,  which  we  would  be  obliged  to  discharge,  or 
stop  further  proceedings — but  how  could  we  do  this  ? — for 
borrowing,  and  mortgaging,  and  persuading  others  to  invest, 
were  all  at  an  end.  There  is  when  I  passed  my  sleepless 
nights,  and  here  is  where  I  was  swamped,"  said  the  doctor, 
rising  up  and  walking  rapidly  back  and  forth.  "  I  can  now 
clearly  sec,  in  the  light  of  my  past  experience,  that  one 


118  NEPENTHE. 

must  not  go  into  a  speculation  without  having  under  his 
control  three  times  the  amount  of  means  which  it  will  proba 
bly  require  to  carry  it  out,  and  then  he  must  not  be  in  haste  to 
get  the  profits  and  become  rich  out  of  it  all  at  once — he  will 
only  be  swamped,  just  as  I  have  been  ;  and  it  will  take  all 
my  earnings  for  the  next  year  or  two  to  pay  off  debts.  But 
my  integrity,  Minnie — that  was  my  crown,  my  glory,  and  my 
pride.  I  have  never  had  an  enemy  until  this  coal  opera 
tion,  and  now  Mr.  Janes  is  doing  all  he  can  in  every  possible 
way  ;  because,  thinking  it  a  very  desirable  speculation,  I 
persuaded  him,  after  referring  him  to  others  who  knew 
more  than  I  did  about  the  matter,  to  invest  with  me  in  the 
enterprise.  Mr.  Trap  is  his  lawyer  ;  he  will  stoop  to  any 
thing  to  get  money.  He  boasts  of  never  having  lost  a  case  ; 
he'd  sell  his  soul  for  twenty-five  dollars.  He'd  probably  get 
along  without  a  soul  as  well  as  with  one.  He  is  a  sneaking, 
rascally  fellow,  and  his  partners  are  equal  to  him  ;  there's 
not  a  more  rascally  firm  in  the  city  than  Trap,  Fogg  &  Craft. 
There's  one  thing  aggravating  about  it,  the  enterprize  failed 
at  a  time  when  it  was  yielding  more  and  better  coal  than  it 
had  done  and  boats  could  not  be  had  to  take  it  away  fast 
enough.  I  have  sent  on  for  mining  operations  at  first  over 
five  thousand  dollars  ;  I  paid  on  the  colliery  property  over 
sixteen  hundred  dollars,!  have  sent  on  for  mining  operations 
and  for  purchase  money  over  eijrht  thousand  dollars.  I 
would  have  paid  more  and  succeeded  at  last,  but  there  was 
no  more  money  to  be  had.  I  know  now  very  well  that  closed 
canals,  strikes,  faults,  fire  damps  are  incidental  to  all  mining 
operations  in  that  region,  and  no  human  sagacity  can  either 
foresee  or  prevent  them.  He  who  would  succeed  at  last 
must  carry  sail  enough  to  outweather  such  obstacles. 

"  I  believe  coal-mining  to  be  really  an  adventure.  Once 
I  thought  certain  rules  were  to  be  followed,  certain  indica 
tions  would  be  positively  sure,  certain  results  inevitaby 
gained.  But  I  have  made  the  matter  a  profound  study,  and 
puzzled  and  bewildered  my  brains  with  formations  and  vari 
ations — lamination  and  stratification  —  identification  and 
generalization,  crystallization  and  complication,  until  my 
deepest  calculation  and  clearest  examination,  end  in  perturb 
ation  and  consternation. 

"  I  agree  with  Lesley,  the  topographical  geologist,  that 
theories  of  identification,  however  correct,  will  be  set  at 


NEPENTHE.  119 

naught  by  unaccountable  and  invisible  misdemeanors  of 
fact.  Sand  rocks  will  slide  into  shales,  conglomerates  be 
come  fine  sands,  favorite  coal  conceal  itself  under  a  de 
graded  type,  never-to-be-mistaken  limestone  disappear,  or 
some  new  calcareous  layer  intrude  itself  among  previously 
pure  clay  beds.  There'll  be  metamorphoses  of  rocks,  hid 
den  rolls,  increased  and  even  reversed  dips,  strata  thrown 
over  on  their  backs,  down  throws  and  up  throws,  and  oblique 
dislocations  of  crust.  In  some  places,  the  whole  operation 
of  mining  is  a  perpetual  experiment,  no  one  knowing  what 
an  hour  may  bring  forth,  nor  the  wisest  able  to  fix  a  certain 
value  on  an  acre,  a  bed,  or  a  gangway.  Like  a  magician 
among  his  uneasy  spirits,  the  coal  hunter  must  be  forever 
on  his  guard  against  surprises  of  all  kinds,  and  expect  his 
embarrassments,  conjectures  and  discoveries  to  begin  anew 
at  every  fresh  location.  When  beds  are  crushed  together, 
folded  up,  turned  over,  and  every  hillside  shows  rocks  dip 
ping  a  different  way,  the  problem  becomes  of  enormous 
difficulty,  and  I  am  not  to  blame  for  this  great  disappoint 
ment.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  I  will  do  nothing  rashly, 
nothing  I  should  regret  in  another  world.  I  have  no  wish 
to  revenge. 

"  If  a  man  wrong  me,  hereafter,  remorse  will  haunt  him. 
In  a  short  time  we  shall  all  stand  before  the  judgment  seat. 
I  may  be  the  prey  of  slander.  I  shall  do  nothing  but  stand 
against  the  wall  and  defend  myself.  It  is  pretty  hard  for 
one  man  to  stand  up  and  keep  off  howling  enemies,  making 
threats  of  prison  and  disgrace — perilling  life,  liberty,  and 
estate." 

"  Well,  judge,  I  told  you  that  man  was  a  scoundrel." 

"  What  man  ?"  asked  the  judge. 

"Why,  the  doctor  whom  I  arrested  the  other  day,"  re 
plied  the  policeman. 

"  That  doctor,  man  or  what  not,  is  all  the  same  to  me — 
has  demanded  examination  in  the  complaint  against  him.  I 
suppose  he  is  fool  enough  to  think  I  will  discharge  him,  but 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  be  bothered  with  these 
long  winded  examinations  any  longer.  They  are  taking  the 
examination  before  the  clerk,  and  I  shall  decide  of  course 
there  was  probable  cause  for  the  arrest,  and  send  the  whole 
thing  down  to  the  Grand  Jury." 


120  NEPENTHE. 

"  You  are  a  trump,  Judge,"  said  the  policeman.  "  Al 
ways  knew  you  were  death  on  scoundrels." 

"  Between  you  and  me,  Jim,  you  know  I  always  deal  out 
ample  justice  to  every  one  who  is  brought  up  here — man, 
woman  or  child,  I  don't  care  who." 

Yes,  he  had  often  dealt  out  ample  justice,  as  he  called  it, 
and  it  had  been  whispered  about  that  a  little  consultation 
with  him  beforehand,  and  possibly  a  bribe,  no  one  knew 
how  often  had  made  innocent  men  the  victims  of  his  indis 
crimination  and  recklessness.  Every  time  a  Judge  takes  a 
bribe,  the  State  totters  to  its  lowest  foundations,  as  if  shaken 
by  an  earthquake.  A  good  Judge  is  almost  the  sole  prop 
of  the  State  ;  for  a  good  Judge  mirrors  forth  in  his  opinions 
not  the  passions,  nor  the  prejudice,  nor  the  caprice  of  the 
people,  but  only  their  Laws  as  expressed  in  their  constitu 
tions  and  in  all  their  legislative  enactments. 

The  policeman  complacently  took  his  leave  of  Hi,3  Honor. 
He  had  been  bribed  by  some  one  of  the  complainant's 
friends,  to  use  his  influence,  (that  meant  bribe,)  with  the 
Justice,  against  Dr.  Wendon.  He  boasted  of  having  great 
influence  with  that,  official  in  assisting  him  to  come  to  the 
right  (?)  conclusion. 

I  said  the  policeman  had  been  bribed,  and  I  have  intimat 
ed  that  the  Judge  was,  too,  but  I  cannot  prove  it.  It  may 
be  hard  always  to  prove  a  Judas  to  be  a  Judas  ;  for  who 
sees  him  when  he  takes  a  bribe,  or  who  can  follow  him 
through  all  that  dark  labyrinth,  wherein  he  has  betrayed 
justice. 

While  Jim  goes  off  to  his  beat,  Mr.  Janes  goes  in  Mr. 
Trap's  office  to  get  him  to  put  the  doctor  through. 

Mr.  Trap  was  peculiarly  happy  in  making  his  clients  be 
lieve  that  everything  he  did  for  them  professionally,  was 
the  best  that  could  be  done  in  the  premises.  Sometimes  in 
the  rush  and  hurry  of  a  city  practice,  some  case  would  be 
overlooked  and  quite  forgotten,  but  Mr.  Trap's  anxious 
client  would  turn  up  in  due  course  of  time  to  remind  him  of 
it.  But  no  matter  if  the  case  had  gone  over  from  time  to 
time,  or  had  got  out  of  court  entirely,  Mr.  Trap  could  ex 
patiate  largely  upon  the  advantage  accruing  from  such  delay 
in  the  discovery  of  new  testimony,  which  must  decide  the 
case  in  favor  of  his  client,  or  the  benefit  of  some  new  decis- 


NEPENTHE.  121 

ion,  which  was  about  to  be  made,  and  which  would  make 
every  thing  all  right. 

Of  course  the  client  was  quite  delighted  with  the  delusion 
that  he  should  surely  win  at  last,  and  that  the  law's  delays 
were  after  all,  most  wise  dispensations  of  justice,  and  Mr. 
Trap,  and  so  the  credulous  client  would  go  away  rejoicing, 
while  Mr.  Trap  would  turn  upon  his  heel  saying  to  himself, 
"  Well !  so  long  as  he's  satisfied,  that's  enough." 

"  What  became  of  Doctor  Wendon's  speculation  ?"  said 
one  lady  to  another,  as  they  were  walking  down  street  some 
three  months  after  the  conversation  in  Mr.  Trap's  office. 

"  Oh,  it  was  a  dead  loss,  and  the  lawyers  made  it  out  a 
case  of  fraud.  It  was  a  time  of  great  panic,  great  scarcity 
of  money,  and  many  really  believed  the  doctor  guilty  of 
fraudulent  intent.  Janes  persecuted  him  relentlessly, 
actuated  by  pure  revenge  because  he  had  lost  himself.  He 
said  he  would  persecute  the  doctor  to  the  last  extent  of  the 
law,  if  only  to  punish  him.  Of  course  he  knew  he  could 
get  nothing.  The  doctor  really  was  imprisoned.  He  was, 
I  believe,  a  most  upright  man.  I  don't  know  as  he  is  out 
of  prison  yet.  I  don't  know  all  about  the  matter.  It  was  a 
tedious  law  suit.  I  couldn't  tell  about  it  if  I  should  try. 
Law  is  dull  enough,  except  to  parties  concerned.  But  I  be 
lieve  the  doctor  is  one  of  the  most  honest  and  honorable  of 
men,  and  Mr.  Janes  had  most  false  accounts  of  the  transac 
tion  put  in  the  daily  papers.  If  I  had  been  the  doctor,  I'd 
sued  him  for  slander." 

Late  one  evening  Nepenthe  Stuart  sat  alone  in  her  room, 
reading  a  little  note  brought  by  a  boy  to  the  door,  and  this 
brief  warning  was  all  it  contained. 

"  Do  not  leave  the  house  for  ten  days.  Your  life  is  in 
danger.  SUSAN." 

It  was  nearly  midnight,  and  Mrs.  Trap  sat  up  waiting  for 
her  husband.  He  was  unusually  late.  He  sat  in  his  office, 
looking  over  some  papers,  and  the  tall,  dark  woman  sat  in 
front  of  him,  looking  over  some  papers  also.  Neither  spoke 
for  half  an  hour,  until  the  woman  broke  the  silence  at  last, 
and  only  one  thing  she  said. 

"  We'll  keep  him  in  prison  as  long  as  we  can,  and  gold 
shall  pay  you,  Mr.  Trap,  plenty  of  gold." 


11 


122  NEPENTHE. 


CHAPTEK    XVI. 

FIFTH    HOUSE   IN    THE   BLOCK    FOR    SALE INQUIRE   OF   JOHN 

TRAP. 

"  And  the  grass  that  chokes  the  portal, 
Bends  not  to  the  tread  of  mortal." 

THE  fifth  house  in  the  block  was  empty,  the  shutters 
closed.  You  could  read  deserted,  in  plain  letters  on  the 
tarnished  door-plate,  broken  shutters,  leaf-strewn  walk  and 
grass-grown  yard.  No  breath  of  kindly  zephyr  cooled  the 
hot,  midsummer  air  long  shut  up  within  those  brick  walls. 
Wanted,  lost,  and  gone,  the  three  tragedy  words  of  life, 
mocked  you  with  ghost-voices  if  you  listened  at  the  key 
hole,  or  peered  through  the  neglected  shutters,  where  the 
lawless  sunshine  played  on  the  bare  walls. 

Few  noticed  the  change  in  the  fifth  house  in  the  block. 
One  old  gentleman,  as  he  passed  slowly  by,  leaning  on  his 
cane,  said,  in  an  asthmatic  whisper,  "  Some  doctor  used  to 
live  there.  How  things  have  changed."  On  the  door  was 
a  bill  in  large  letters. 

"  THIS  HOUSE  FOR  SALE. 
Inquire  of  JOHN  TRAP, 

No.  16 street." 

No  eye,  no  voice,  no  footstep  met  you  if  you  climbed  the 
staircase  and  entered  the  vacant  front  chamber.  There  was 
only  a  little  empty  crib  in  the  corner.  There,  for  six 
months  had  little  Violet  Wendon  nestled,  as  she  twined  her 
dimpled  arms  close  around  the  doctor's  neck  at  earliest 
dawn.  He  culled  her  "  his  peep  of  day." 

"  How  pleasant  the  houses  in  that  row,"  said  many  a 
passer-by  at  nightfall,  "  when  the  chandeliers  light  up,  the 
damask  glows  rubier  in  the  gas-light,  and  a  crystal  polish 
glistens  on  the  illuminated  windows  :  but  out  of  that  block 
Grod  has  chiselled  two  glorious  souls,  and  placed  them  in 
niches  in  the  upper  court  of  His  great  studio  above." 


' 

NEPENTHE.  123 

'Tis  sad  to  go  away  from  scenes  familiar,  and  come  back 
only  to  hear  strange  voices,  and  meet  new  faces.  Of  all  the 
actors  in  our  little  programme,  all  had  changed  homes  the 
last  year  save  Prudence  Potter,  whose  eventless  history  was 
marked  by  few  new  eras.  There  was  no  near  relative  for 
her  to  lose  but  brother  Zekiel,  and  he  was  married.  Their 
two  single  lives  had  paralleled  so  placidly  along  for  years, 
she  could  brook  no  change,  and  since  his  wooing  and  wed 
ding,  a  hoighty-toity  school-girl,  with  only  a  pink  and  white 
face  to  recommend  her,  she  could  not  go  back  to  the  old 
place  and  see  her  hitherto  precisely  managed  household  af 
fairs  going  on  at  "  such  loose  ends,"  so  she  still  remains 
with  cousin  Priscilla.  She  has  been  talking  of  "  going 
home  next  week,"  ever  since  we  first  heard  of  her. 

We  will  find  her  one  Monday  morning  reading  aloud  from 
an  old  paper  she  has  picked  up  in  the  garret,  for  she  has  a 
passion  for  rummaging  and  ransacking  ;  possibly,  had  she 
been  a  man,  this  propensity  might  have  led  to  some  valua 
ble  discovery.  She  read  aloud  in  a  precise  and  hesitating 
manner,  every  now  and  then  turning  her  paper  towards  the 
light,  for  she  has  just  bought  glasses  number  thirty-six 
instead  of  fifty -four,  and  for  once,  she  owns  she  has  made  a 
mistake.  She  reads  all  the  murders,  shocking  casualties 
and  disasters  by  sea  and  land 

She  reads  at  last,  devouring  every  word  as  surprising 
intelligence,  part  of  a  letter  from  Dr.  Wendon,  who  was 
one  of  the  passengers  on  the  wrecked  steamer. 

"  We  were  driven  by  the  flames  back  from  the  quarter 
deck,  where  we  had  been  standing.  I  let  myself  down  into 
the  sea  by  a  rope,  and  tried  to  swim,  holding  the  child  ;  and 
my  wife  was  sitting  across  my  shoulder.  It  was  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  ;  the  gunpowder  exploded  when  we  had 
been  some  time  in  the  water.  I  tried  to  hold  my  child 
above  the  water  ;  the  water  from  the  screw  washed  over  us 
for  some  minutes  ;  first  my  child  was  forcibly  washed  away 
by  the  waves  out  of  my  arms,  and  then  my  wife.  I  saw  them 
no  more.  Having  lost  the  rope,  I  seized  a  plank  that  was 
floating  along,  and  fastened  myself  to  it.  I  was  getting 
faint  and  weary  when  I  saw  in  the  distance  a  vessel.  I 
tried  to  steer  towards  it.  After  nearly  three  hours  I  reached 
it.  I  remember  very  little  about  the  fate  of  the  steamer.  I 
was  completely  exhausted  when  taken  on  board  the  vessel." 


12 i  NEPENTHE. 

It  is  said,  that  after  the  accident,  the  front  lock  of  the 
doctor's  raven  hair  was  grey.  His  hair  had  always  been 
beautiful,  black,  glossy,  matching  his  eyes.  He  was  really 
handsome,  yet  so  noble,  manly,  and  digified.  He  never 
betrayed  any  vanity,  or  consciousness  of  beauty. 

Few  strangers  met  him  without  exclaiming,  "  A  fine  look 
ing  man  ;  one  of  nature's  noblemen." 

There  were  never  more  beautiful  eyes  in  a  human  head  than 
Dr.  Wendon's.  Clear,  bright,  piercing  without  being  sharp, 
you  might  not  even  remember  the  outline  of  his  other  fea 
tures,  but  if  you  talked  with  him  you  only  knew  you  had 
seen  some  radiant  eyes  ;  perhaps  you  could  not  tell  their 
color.  In  the  evening  when  animated,  you  would  call  them 
black,  in  the  sunshine  hazel. 

When  a  boy  he  was  told  so  often  about  his  beautiful  eyes 
it  would  be  strange,  if  he  should  grow  up  unconscious  of 
his  chief  attraction.  Then  they  were  such  strong  eyes;  he 
had  read,  late  at  night,  Greek  tragedies  and  closely  written 
manuscripts  ;  he  had  used  his  eyes  for  hours  with  microscope 
and  telescope,  their  power  never  seemed  weakened,  never 
deficient.  He  would  often  read  some  soothing  poem  when 
harassed  and  excited,  books  had  been  in  the  weary  hours  an 
unfailing  resort.  He  was  enthusiastic  about  paintings  and 
flowers — then  his  face  was  so  expressive,  his  eyes  would  light 
up  so  when  in  conversation,  they  were  so  full  of  soul  and 
feeling. 

At  last  the  auctioneer's  hammer  sounded  its  doleful 
"  going,  going,  gone,"  knocking  down  all  of  Dr.  Wendou's 
household  goods. 

His  young  wife  and  his  little  Violet,  those  incarnations  of 
loveliness,  had  perished  by  that  fearful  accident — and  months 
had  passed. 

One  day,  when  life  looked  its  loveliest,  nature  was  frolic- 
ing  with  zephyrs  and  kissing  the  flowers,  an  Eden  glow  rested 
on  earth's  garden.  Far  above  life's  busy  stage,  folds 
of  sapphire,  and  amber  and  gold  festooned  the  draperied 
clouds.  There  was  a  grand  floral  matinee  ;  Nature's  great 
dress  circle  was  clad  in  its  gala  robes.  Whole  families  of 
royal  carnations  and  delicate  violet-3,  were  out  in  full  dress 
with  their  green  opera  cloaks,  enchanting  the  eye  as  they 
coquetted  with  whispering  zephyrs.  As  you  watched  the 
airy  dance  of  the  butterfly,  or  listened  occasionally  to  an 


NEPENTHE.  125 

oriole's  soprano,  or  caught  the  low  strains  of  the  humming 
bird's  contralto,  you  might,  from  the  depths  of  a  happy 
heart,  chime  in  your  grateful  anthem — "  how  full  and  how 
precious  ;  how  sweet  the  brimming  cup  of  life."  Beneath 
such  sunny  skies,  under  waving  boughs,  one  might  sit  down 
and  re-weave  the  broken  web  of  happiness,  and  robe  the 
spirit  anew  in  hope's  gayest  gossamer. 

Dr.  Wendon  stands  by  the  window,  almost  bathed  in  a 
golden  flood  of  sunshine,  and  tries  to  catch  some  view  of  the 
distant  spire  of  a  familiar  church.  The  outlines  are  bold 
and  distinct,  yet  he  sees  them  not.  He  places  his  hands 
over  his  eyes,  staggers,  sighs  heavily,  and  at  last  there 
breaks  out  from  the  depths  of  his  surcharged  heart,  that 
most  sorrowful  of  all  sorrowful  sounds — a  sob,  a  man's  irre 
pressible,  hopeless  sob. 

He  stands  up  again,  erect,  still — and  waits,  and  listens, 
and  waits.  The  door  opens,  and  a  man  enters — 'tis  Dr. 
Cerrier.  He  walks  up  and  shakes  hands,  but  almost  impa 
tiently,  Dr.  Wendon  says,  "  Give  me  your  opinion,  Dr.  Cer 
rier  ;  I  want  your  final  opinion." 

The  oculist  looks, 'examines,  looks  again,  hesitates,  then 
he  says,  slowly,  "  You  have  amaurosis.  The  great  and  pro 
tracted  exertion  of  your  eyes,  the  painful  circumstances 
through  which  you  have  passed,  the  severe  blow  on  the  eye 
brows  you  recently  received,  have  all  produced  this  result. 
Yours  is  one  of  those  rare  cases,  when  a  wound  on  the  eye 
brows  and  neighboring  frontal  region,  has  caused  serious 
injury.  The  fracture  extends  along  the  thin  brittle  orbital 
process  of  the  frontal  bone,  reaching  to  the  optic  nerve,  or 
to  the  union  of  the  two  nerves.  I  cannot  see  that  in  this 
instance,  the  blow  has  affected  the  vascularity  or  the  trans 
parency  of  the  different  textures  of  the  eye. 

"  The  injury  did  not  seem  serious  at  first,  but  actual 
blindness  will  supervene  sooner  or  later  ;  you  must  keep  up 
your  general  health,  and  be  perfectly  quiet,  avoiding  all  ex 
citement." 

The  scientific  cause,  the  scientific  possibilities,  the  scien 
tific  probabilities,  the  scientific  words,  fell  unheeded  on 
those  quivering  ears. 

The  epitome  of  all  sorrow  was  summed  up  in  these  sim 
ple  words,  '  I  am  blind  !' 

What  avails  the  moving  of  scientific   hands   over   closed 


126  NEPENTHE. 

eyes,  the  sounding  of  technical  terms  in  grief-stricken  ears  ; 
once  enter  the  realm  of  blindness,  what  professional  aid  or 
counsel  can  ease  the  grief  or  soothe  the  malady  ? 

"  It  requires  a  great  deal  of  philosophy  to  bear  these  ills 
of  life,"  said  the  oculist  as  he  left. 

Once  more  alone,  Dr.  Wendon  sat  as  if  stupefied. 
"  Quiet,  quiet,  quiet,"  he  repeated  at  length,  slowly  and 
half  unconsciously,  "  when  my  soul  is  tossed  and  troubled 
on  this  great  sea  of  sorrow.  Philosophy  !  what  philosophy 
can  irradiate  the  gloom  of  blindness  ?  Must  I,  who  have 
restored  sight  to  so  many  eyes,  cease  my  precious  labors — 
those  labors  which  bring  forth  rest,  rest  so  sweet  after 
toil  ?  Must  I  lay  away  from  my  sight  the  consoling  faces 
of  books,  the  kindly  looks  of  nature  ?" 

For  weeks  he  planned  and  thought,  and  thought  and 
planned  to  find  some  way  to  give  vent  to  his  feelings,  as  he 
sat  in  his  perpetual  twilight,  trying  to  catch  glimpses  of  the 
fading  sun,  by  the  light  of  his  fading  vision.  He  closed  the 
shutters,  and  sat  in  gloomy  retrospection,  trying  to  think  of 
some  way  of  writing  down  his  thoughts.  Clasping  his  hands 
in  despair,  he  arose,  and  walked  back  and  forth,  exclaiming 
"  Must  my  solitary  thoughts  melt  away  with  hectic,  or  freeze 
within  me  ?  Must  my  soul  in  this  endless  nightmare  never 
be  able  to  cry  out  for  help  ?" 

He  bemoans  his  loss,  and  at  last  he  writes,  in  crooked, 
unsightly  lines  ;  but  he  writes  in  that  old  journal  of  his. 
The  paper  is  all  blank  to  him,  but  the  words  are  burning, 
as  he  feels  his  way  along  the  page,  folding  and  creasing  it 
as  he  writes,  so  as  to  fancy  he  has  some  guiding  lines  :  and 
thus  he  writes. 

"  The  gate  of  the  eyes  is  closed,  and  all  the  joy-avenues  of 
life  are  closed  at  once,  and  there  is  a  wall  around  my  spirit 
— it  is  buried  alive,  star  and  sky  and  green  earth  are  sheet 
ed  and  shrouded  from  my  vision. 

"  In  the  tomb  of  my  heart  nature  is  only  an  embalmed,  cof 
fined  mummy.  My  soul  is  vaulted  in  darkness.  Every 
passer  by  can  read  on  its  darkened  front,  '  Here  lies  buried 
the  soul  of  Dr.  Wendon,  bereaved,  beggared,  blind.  Bound 
like  Prometheus  to  the  rock  of  darkness,  with  Memory's 
vulture  preying  at  my  heart,  dwelling  like  Tantalus  near 
the  gushing  stream  of  human  life,  but  tasting  its  b,liss  no 
more.' 


NEPENTHE.  127 

"  Left  starless,  sunless,  moonless,  skyless — guided,  fed 
by  attendant  bands — 0  God  !  there  is  no  preparation  for  this 
shock  of  blindness.  With  what  raiment,  what  food,  what 
staff,  what  lantern  can  the  soul  provide  itself  for  this  dark, 
faltering,  stumbling,  trembling,  rough  life  journey  ?  Must 
I  walk  forever  the  silent  shore  of  Memory,  watching  the 
shadowy  sails  of  phantom  joy-ships  drifting  out  of  sight,  or 
lost  in  the  gloom  of  an  endless  night  ? 

The  sunshine  dances  no  more  on  the  deep  sea  of  thought ; 
Memory's  torchlight  procession  moves  on  as  the  muffled  bell 
at  the  gate  of  the  soul  tolls  out  the  departure  of  light.  Re 
trospection  sits  at  the  stern,  throwing  back  its  dim  light  on 
the  wake  of  the  spirit.  Lonely  thought  keeps  up  its  gloomy 
night  watch  all  the  long  hours  of  weary  years,  while  the  soul 
chants  its  dirge  out  on  life's  dreary  sea.  Alone  in  the  dark  I 
hear  the  shuffling  feet  of 'worshippers  outside,  on  life's  outer 
coast  echoing  around  my  soul's  closed  doors  and  dying 
away. 

"  The  inner  veil  is  hung,  the  soul  goes  no  more  out  to 
meet  the  responses  of  earthly  oracles — it  kneels  alone." 

No,  not  alone,  poor  desolate  blind  man — for  when  the 
soul  is  walled  up  high  above  the  stars  by  its  wall  of  dark 
ness,  through  God's  great  skylight,  away  up  in  the  top  of 
the  spirit's  dome,  there  streams  down  clear,  radiant  light  on 
the  artist  soul,  as  it  works  alone  with  its  finely  carved  and 
fretted  thoughts. 

Unseen  hands  unroll  the  spirit's  canvas  beautiful  paint 
ing  and  frescoed  thoughts,  adorn  its  walls,  mosaic  truths  in 
lay  its  floor,  till  base  and  battlement,  frieze  and  entablature, 
glow  with  living  light — while  away  back  in  the  spirit's  holi 
est,  the  Great  High  Priest  kindles  on  the  darkened  shrine 
His  radiant  Shekinah. 

When  orient  morn,  cloudless  noon,  and  gorgeous  sunset 
shine  no  more  through  the  stained  windows  of  the  soul,  bar 
red  and  bolted,  shuttered  forever  from  cheerful  day,  celes 
tial  stars  come  cut  one  by  one  and  twinkle  in  the  spirit's 
&ky,  eternal  lamps  are  hung  along  the  soul's  vaulted  halls, 
cheering  the  depths  of  its  caverned  gloom. 

When  the  daylight  dies  from  the  spirit,  in  the  hidden 
recesses  fall  celestial  dews,  and  fragrant  night-blooming 
flowers  unfold  their  snowy  petals. 

Reader,  did  you  ever  sit  for  a  month   in  the  dark,  with 


128  NEPENTHE. 

shaded  eyes,  with  the  fear  of  blindness  like  an  adumbrated 
terror  ever  before  you — and  have  those  lonesome,  tiresome, 
doleful  words  always  sounding  in  your  ears  from  mother, 
sister,  doctor,  "  You  mustn't  use  your  eyes — you  mustn't 
think  about  any  thing  "  ?  Every  day  somebody  comes  in  to 
tell  you  there  are  many  people  worse  off  than  you  are,  many 
have  lost  their  sight  with  eyes  quite  like  yours  ;  you  sit  and 
think  till  you  are  nothing  but  thought.  Resigned  you  may 
be,  but  never  thankful,  till  unshaded,  unveiled,  unparasolled, 
you  emerge  from  prison  gloom,  and  your  long  blindfold  soul 
looks  up  into  the  clear  sky  again  as  you  sit  once  more  in 
mother  Nature's  lap,  and  read  her  nursery  rhymes  semi- 
colored  with  stars  and  vignetted  with  flowers. 

Then  never  weep,  never  despond,  never  falter,  you  who 
have  strong  hands,  honest  hearts,  and  clear-seeing  eyes,  and 
never  pass  unmoved  the  blind  man  by  the  wayside.  Say  to 
him,  in  the  kind  language  of  the  Carthagenian  Queen,  "  Not 
ignorant  of  evil,  I  myself  know  how  to  succor  the  unfortu 
nate." 

Days  pass  on.  Dr.  Wendon  can  still  tell  the  daylight 
from  the  dark  as  he  sits  in  that  silent  room,  surrounded  by 
his  books,  the  wreck  of  his  former  fortune.  There  they  are, 
large  libraries  from  floor  to  ceiling,  all  around  him  ;  but  be 
tween  him  and  them,  near  as  they  are,  is  a  great  gulf  of 
darkness  fixed.  Flowers  are  sent  him — tulips,  dahlias,  ele 
gant,  brilliant  flowers  :  he  sends  them  away. 

A  friend  in  Europe,  not  having  heard  of  his  misfortune, 
sent  him  a  magnificent  painting.  He  says  with  a  sigh,  "Go, 
put  it  up  where  you  please." 

One  afternoon  he  sleeps  in  his  chair,  and  putting  out  his 
footsteps  on  his  favorite  dog,  almost  crushed  his  leg.  The 
frightened  animal  runs  off  howling  with  pain.  The  doctor 
never  liked  a  cane  ;  now  he  never  can  walk  out  without  one. 

He  sits  at  life's  closed  keyhole,  in  the  dark,  watching  for 
voices.  The  musical  voice  once  always  first  to  whisper  con 
solation,  is  hushed  ;  if  those  arms  could  only  clasp  him  in 
one  more  tender  embrace,  he  could  better  sit  forever  in  the 
iurk.  He  listens  as  he  turns  his  head  at  the  least  sound  : 
he  hears  only  the  rough  billows  dashing  against  the  cold 
shore  of  memory  :  each  echo  seems  a  booming  minute  gun 
for  some  joy  going  down.  He  says  mournfully,  "  All  thy 


NEPENTHE.  129 

waves  and  thy  billows  are  going  over  me — I  shall  perish  in 
this  dark." 

He  hears  not  the  sweet  voice  of  that  only  One  walking 
serenely  on  life's  rough  billows,  "  I  am  the  light  of  life  ; 
if  any  man  hear  my  voice  he  shall  not  walk  in  darkness,  he 
shall  see  light.  Catch  the  hem  of  my  radiant  robes  and  you 
shall  walk  in  light  forever." 

Once  when  he  passed  along,  strangers  asked  "  Who  is 
that  gentleman  with  those  fine  eyes  ?"  Now  for  the  first 
time  he  goes  out,  carefully  attended  by  his  kind  young 
friend.  As  he  tries  so  hard  to  walk  along  unaided  and  un 
attended,  he  stumbles  against  the  curb-stone  and  almost 
falls.  He  shudders  as  he  hears  some  thoughtless,  light- 
hearted  maiden  exclaim  as  he  passes,  "  Who  is  that  poor 
blind  man  ?"  Is  he  really  a  blind  man  ? — no  more  the  cel 
ebrated  Dr.  Wendon,  but  a  poor  blind  man  ! 

It  is  so  hard  for  a  man  once  praised  and  envied,  to  be  the 
object  of  pity  to  a  heartless  crowd — to  be  pitied  for  a  hope 
less  misfortune.  A  man  would  rather  rule,  protect,  defend, 
than  be  always  an  object  of  compassion  and  care.  In  a  lit 
tle  trouble,  he  may  fret  and  fume  and  annoy  others,  but  in  a 
great  sorrow  even  a  wife's  pity  must  be  carefully  manifested 
to  an  unfortunate  husband.  There  are  moods  in  a  man's  life 
when  he  will  gloomily  bear  alone,  rather  than  share  some 
business  trouble,  mental  suffering,  or  bodily  agony. 

It  was  a  Sabbath — a  sweet,  balmy  Sabbath — and  Mrs. 
Pridefit,  elegantly  dressed,  is  walking  home  from  church. 

"  What  a  pity,  John,"  she  says  daintily,  holding  up  her 
unsoiled  brocade,  for  the  ground  is  damp,  "  what  a  pity  that 
Dr.  Wendon  is  blind  !  It  has  spoiled  his  beauty.  He 
was  such  a  stylish-looking  man.  Don't  that  gray  lock  on  his 
head  look  odd  !  I  would  have  it  dyed  if  I  were  in  his 
place." 

Miss  Prudence  Potter  overhears  something  about  some 
doctor's  being  blind,  and  she  says,  with  her  old  peculiar 
smile,  "  He  couldn't  be  much  of  a  doctor,  if  he  couldn't  keep 
himself  from  being  blind." 

"  'Tis  a  punishment  for  his  sins,"  said  Miss  Charity  Gouge, 
daintily  holding  up  her  new  green  brocade,  "  'tis  a  punish 
ment  for  his  sins." 

"  Punishment  for  his  sins  !"  said  Kate  Howard,  who  was 
walking  by  her  side.  "  What  great  sins  has  he  committed  ?" 

6* 


130  NEPENTHE. 

"  Why,  he  was  guilty  of  fraud,"  said  Miss  Charity.  "  Mr. 
Trap  made  it  out  a  c4ear  case  of  fraud." 

"  If  Mr.  Trap  proved  his  guilt,"  said  Kate,  "  I  believe  he 
is  innocent,  as  all  sensible  people  know  he  is." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Charity,  "  if  he  is  not  guilty  of  fraud, 
he  is  not  a  Christian  ;  and  it  is  a  sad  thing  for  a  man  to  get 
to  be  of  mature  years  and  not  be  a  Christian.  This  may  be 
the  judgment  of  Grod  that  is  to  lead  him  to  repentance." 

"  Well,"  said  Kate,  "  if  all  the  wicked  people  in  the  world 
were  made  blind,  we'd  most  of  us  be  left  in  the  dark.  One 
of  the  noblest  and  best  Christians  I  ever  knew,  became  blind 
by  accident,  when  a  child.  I  have  often  guided  him  up  and 
down  Broadway,  and  I  felt  in  a  blaze  of  spiritual  light  when 
walking  by  his  side.  He  has  piloted  many  an  erring  soul 
through  the  world's  moral  darkness.  There  is  a  shade  over 
his  eyes,  but  his  soul  '  sits  high  in  its  meridian  tower,'  and 
dwells  forever  in  that  radiant  zone  where  no  shadow  falls. 
Yet  hidden  forever  behind  life's  magic  curtain,  he  throws 
out  his  brilliant  phantasmagoria  of  imagery,  to  the  instruc 
tion  and  charm  of  watching  eyes. 

"  He  is  a  clergyman,  and  his  clarion  voice  and  radiant 
thoughts  have  made  hiai  the  grandest  living  .monument  in 
the  land,  of  the  sovereign  power  of  a  royal  soul\ver  a  locked 
sense.  His  soul,  like  a  peerless  diamond  in  the  dark,  ever 
emits  flash  after  flash  of  vivid  light,  kindling  in  the  eye 
and  burning  in  the  heart  of  admiring  crowds.  If  any  man 
deserves  a  cordial  grasp  of  the  hand,  and  a  fervent  God 
speed,  it  is  this  spiritual  giant,  finding  his  sightless  way  to 
classic  founts,  and  peril's  peak,  carving  his  name  in  Chris 
tian  hearts,  as  he  safely  leaps  from  hill  to  hill  of  faith,  across 
the  roiling  flood  of  popularity,  and  over  the  dizziest  sleepers 
of  the  bridge  of  fame.  His  laurel  crown,  though  green  and 
beautiful,  must  be,  in  his  loneliest  hours,  wreathed  with  a 
'  chaplet  of  thorns.'  " 

Kate  Howard  often  felt  bursts  of  enthusiasm,  but  she  sel 
dom  spoke  with  as  much  feeling  as  on  this  occasion. 

A  few  of  the  doctor's  old  patients,  seeing  him  out  pale, 
blind,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  young  friend,  say, 
"  What  a  pity  Dr.  Wendon  is  so  unfortunate  !  Who'll  we 
have  for  our  doctor  now  ?" 

The  oculist  is  walking  along  with  another  physician.  He 
too  is  talking  about  the  blind  doctor.  He  says  it  is  an  in- 


NEPENTHE.  131 

teresting  case  of  amaurosis — he  is  glad  to  have  an  opportu 
nity  for  diagnosis — the  diagnosis  is  easier  than  the  progno 
sis.  He  thinks  electricity  a  wonderful  therapeutic  agent. 

Just  behind  the  corner  stands  a  woman  with  hollow  eyes 
and  long  nose,  muttering  to  herself:  "  The  doctor  can't  be 
of  much  use  to  any  one  now — he  might  as  well  be  dead  too. 
The  scales  of  trouble  are  balanced  after  all.  Rich  to-day, 
to-morrow  poor  and  blind.  That  girl  will  have  to  shirk  for 
herself  now." 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE    MOUNTAIN    RIDE. 

ON,  on  through  the  long  woods  the  clumsy  coach  rumbles, 
the  trees  almost  meet  overhead — but  a  small  patch  of  blue 
can  be  seen — you  could  only  catch  at  intervals  any  glimpse 
of  the  western  sky. 

The  first  intimation  of  the  coming  storm  was  a  heavy  roll 
of  thunder.  Way  out  of  sight  of  the  woods,  the  western  sky 
was  gathering  blackness.  As  on  through  the  winding  road 
the  stage  rumbled,  there  came  all  at  once  a  heavy  clap  of 
thunder,  and  then  a  flash,  lighting  up  the  dark  woods  with 
gloomy  grandeur. 

"  Hurry  up,  driver,  hurry  up — most  there  ?"  shouted  the 
fat  man  in  the  corner,  putting  his  gray  head  out  of  the  win 
dow  as  they  came  out  under  the  open  sky,  where  black  heaps 
of  clouds  were  piling  higher  and  higher. 

"  Eight  miles  yet,"  said  the  driver,  impatiently. 

"  Thunder  !"  exclaimed  the  fat  man  again  ;  which  excla 
mation  was  for  once  singularly  appropriate,  for  just  then  a 
heavy  clap  came,  and  then  all  was  still. 

In  one  corner  of  the  stage  sits  a  lady  with  straw  bonnet 
and  green  ribbon,  drab  shawl  and  brown  dress,  gold-framed 
spectacles  over  her  eyes,  reticule  in  her  hand.  On  her  lap 
is  a  bandbox,  containing  her  new  cap,  and  in  her  other  hand 
her  green  silk  umbrella,  as  it  rains.  She  has  taken  off  her 
shawl  and  put  it  on  again  wrong  side  out,  to  keep  it  from 
being  soiled.  There  is  a  small  square  paper  pasted  on.  the 
top  of  her  bandbox,  labeled  "  Miss  Prudence  Potter."  There 


132  NEPENTHE. 

is  the  old  smile  on  her  face.  She  says  nothing  about  the 
storm,  but  contents  herself  with  her  old  consolation,  "What 
can't  be  cured  must  be  endured." 

"  Drive  on,  drive  on,  don't  keep  us  here,"  said  one  of  the 
passengers.  Crack,  crack  went  the  whip,  and  on  they  sped 
like  lightning.  Suddenly  there  was  a  crash — but  this  time 
the  crash  was  not  above.  Over  went  the  passengers — the 
stage  was  upset — one  of  the  wheels  was  off. 

One  half- intoxicated  man  in  the  corner  was  the  first  to 
slip  out.  He  rolled  over,  with  his  head  almost  crushed  by 
the  weight  of  a  fellow-passenger.  He  drew  a  long  breath, 
as  if  struggling  out  from  under  something,  and  exclaimed, 
with  frightened  tone  and  bewildered  look,  "  I  say,  driver, 
are  we  or — up  or — or  down,  or — or  where  ?" 

"  Great  Governor  of  Egypt !"  screamed  the  fat  man  from 
Arkansas,  as  he  stood  at  last  in  the  doorway  of  the  only 
house  in  the  vicinity,  looking  all  around,  first  up  at  the  sky 
and  then  at  the  frightened,  dripping  passengers,  huddling 
into  the  one  little  sitting-room.  "  Great  Governor  of  Egypt, 
•warn't  that  a  buster,  stranger  ?  I  came  nearer  going  to  the 
devil  that  time  than  I  ever  did  in  my  life  before.  That  up 
set  and  all  pretty  nearly  made  a  galvanic  battery  of  me — 
only  one  side  of  me  don't  connect  at  all,"  he  added,  rubbing 
his  right  ear,  which  looked  a  little  red.  "  That  pretty  nearly 
broke  the  dram  of  my  tym — pan — um.  This  road  must  be 
the  road  to  Jordan,  for  it's  hard  enough  to  travel." 

Just  then  a  traveller  rode  up,  a  young  gentleman  in  a  one 
horse  carriage,  evidently  to  gain  a  shelter. 

"  Why,  Carleyn,  where  did  you  come  from  ?"  said  a  tall 
man  in  the  corner,  as  the  stranger  drove  up  and  entered  the 
door.  He  had  kept  silence  for  five  minutes,  as  if  his  thoughts 
had  been  swallowed  up  in  the  storm  and  fright.  His  voice 
was  deep,  hollow  and  sepulchral,  as  if  it  came  up  out  of 
some  gloomy  depths.  "  Have  you  been  taking  this  thunder- 
storm,  or  has  it  taken  you  ?"  said  he  to  Carleyn.  "  You  al 
ways  wanted  to  be  out  in  one  good  storm.  Such  a  storm 
shakes  up  a  man's  ideas  wonderfully.  Did  you  meet  our 
vehicle  on  the  way1?  I  remember  that  lecture  you  gave 
once  about  the  stage  before  and  behind,  &c.  Well,  to-day 
we  are  all  before  the  stage,  and  if  you  came  that  way,  you 
must  have  concluded  that  the  stage  isn't  well  supported  in 
these  parts.  We've  been  on  the  stage  to-day',  practicing 


NEPENTHE.  133 

comedy  and  tragedy  together.  We  all  acted.  You  might 
have  thought  our  parts  overdrawn — we  were  pretty  well 
overdrawn,  if  our  parts  were  uot,"  he  added,  facetiously. 
"  Anyway  the  tragi-comedy  scene  is  over,  and  we've  left  the 
stage  for  some  more  active  profession.  We  think  of  making 
a  pedestrian  tour  to  explore  the  country.  But  you've  come 
in  good  time.  You  can  take  this  young  woman  here  in  your 
buggy.  The  rest  of  us  are  all  men  folks — we  can  walk  a- 
foot  to  Gray's  Tavern.  There's  no  resorting  to  the  stage 
this  night,  and  Bill  will  have  to  take  the  mail  on  the  horse's 
back." 

"  I  will  be  happy  to  take  the  young  lady  under  my 
charge,"  said  Mr.  Carleyn,  removing  his  hat  and  bowing  po 
litely  to  the  young  lady,  who  sat  alone  by  the  window,  appa 
rently  looking  at  the  bears  and  lions  conspicuously  dis 
played  on  the  blue  windo.v  shade. 

"  Carleyn,"  spoke  up  the  tall  man  again,  "  the  young  wo 
man  has  a  trunk.  Can't  you  fasten  it  in  the  boot,  if  you 
think  there  is  room  ?" 

"  I've  no  baggage  of  my  own,"  said  Carleyn.  "  I've  room 
enough.  As  the  storm  seems  to  be  over,  we'll  fasten  it  in 
now,  with  your  permission,"  he  added,  politely  again  ad 
dressing  the  young  lady. 

As  Mr.  Carleyn  lifted  so  carefully  the  small  trunk  into 
the  carriage,  he  couldn't  help  seeing  on  one  end  the  initials 
"  N.  S.,"  and  then  he  couldn't  help  wondering  what  the  rest 
of  the  name  was. 

There  is  something  mysterious  about  initials — they  leave 
such  a  vague  field  of  conjecture.  "  N.  S."  Was  it  Nelly 
Sinclair,  or  Nancy  Smith,  or  Naomi  Stevens  ?  How  many 
thoughts  may  huddle  into  a  man's  mind  while  he  is  fasten 
ing  up  a  lady's  trunk.  "  What  is  the  use  of  guessing,  when 
you've  no  certain  data?"  Levi  Longman,  the  new  school 
master  in  that  district  would  say,  as  he  always  promptly 
dismissed  such  foolish,  wandering  thoughts. 

"  But  who  is  this  N.  S.  ?"  thought  Carieyn,  as  he  stood  a 
moment  buttoning  up  his  traveling  coat  and  glancing  up  at 
the  door,  over  which  was  this  new  inscription  : 

"  Cake  and  beer 
Sold  here ; 
Crackers  and  cheese, 
If  you  please ; 
Walk  in,  I  swear, 
And  take  a  chair." 


134  NEPENTHE. 

"  Timothy  Titus  must  be  getting  poetical,"  thought  Car- 
leyn,  "  to  have  so  much  hexameter  over  his  door.  He  has 
also  two  new  window-shades  in  the  upper  story  with  larger 
bears  and  lions  than  ever." 

Miss  Prudence  Potter's  new  spectacles  are  broken,  her 
bandbox  is  smashed  in,  her  bonnet-strings  are  soiled,  the 
front  breadth  of  her  dress  is  torn,  two  of  her  new  front  teeth 
are  broken,  the  top  of  her  umbrella  handle  is  off,  and  the 
strap  is  off  of  her  trunk.  She  says  nothing  as  she  enters 
Mrs.  Titus'  front  door,  but  walks  right  out  into  the  kitchen, 
hangs  her  shawl  on  the  back  of  an  old  chair,  mourns  over 
her  broken  teeth  and  dilapidated  spectacles,  and  mutters  in 
distinctly,  as  she  goes  around  hunting  up  some  liniment  to 
keep  off  the  rheumatism,  "  It  is  heathenish  to  have  such 
careless  drivers.  She  won't  start  off  again  on  any  journey  on 
Friday .^  She  won't  go  a  step  further  this  night.  She'll  never 
get  in  a  stage-coach  again.  If  she  once  gets  home,  she  will 
stay  there." 

Mrs.  Titus  says  there  is  no  unoccupied  lodging-room  for 
her  in  the  house,  but  there  is  a  little  wash-house  built  back 
in  the  yard,  where  a  temporary  bed  can  be  made.  So  Miss 
Prudence  consents  to  "  colonize  out  "  that  night  in  the  wash- 
house. 

Prudence  Potter  has  one  tender  chord  in  her  heart,  after 
all.  Zekiel's  wife  is  dead,  and  has  left  an  infant  six  months 
old,  and  she  is  going  home  to  take  care  of  it,  to  love  it,  and, 
in  her  rough  way,  to  be  its  mother.  She  will  probably  trot 
it  half  the  time,  and  give  it  catnip  tea  and  Godfrey's  cor 
dial,  and  make  it  just  such  a  little  blue  silk  hood  as  she  used 
to  wear  when  a  ba.by. 

While  the  trunk  was  being  put  in  its  new  quarters,  the 
young  lady  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  saw  Mr.  Carleyn 
place,  very  carefully,  a  flat  bundle  in  the  bottom  of  the  car 
riage.  It  was  not  exactly  a  bundle,  but  looked  more  like 
large  sheets  of  pasteboard  laid  together. 

"  We'll  have  showers  all  along  the  road  to-day,"  said  he 
to  the  tall  gentleman  who  had  been  assisting  him  a  little. 
"  I  mean  bush  showers.  We'll  have  plenty  of  bushes  to 
ride  through  ;  there'll  be  shower  baths  enough." 

"  Take  this  shawl,"  said  Mrs.  Titus,  who  came  rushing 
out  of  the  door  with  a  large  plaid  shawl ;  "  you'll  need  it ; 
you  can  bring  it  when  you  pass  this  way  again.  Our  Timo- 


NEPENTHE.  135 

thy  got  a  very  sore  throat  the  last  time  he  rode  through 
those  high  bushes.  You  must  take  better  care  of  yourself, 
Mr.  Carleyn,"  said  she,  kindly. 

Just  then  a  tall  man  came  up  to  the  door.  "  I'll  make  you 
acquainted  with  our  new  school-master,  Mr.  Levi  Longman, 
a  cousin  of  Rachael  Longman's,  Mr.  Carleyn,"  said  Mrs. 
Titus. 

You  might  travel  a  great  distance  and  not  find  a  larger 
heart  or  a  larger  person  than  Mrs.  Timothy  Titus.  Her  hus 
band  was  exceedingly  long  and  narrow,  approaching  seven 
feet  of  longitude.  He  had  a  peculiar  twist  in  his  walk, 
which  made  him  lean  forward  a  little  and  incline  to  the  right 
side  ;  but  Mrs.  Timothy  always  insisted  upon  it  that  it  was 
a  good  fault  for  Timothy  to  incline  to  the  right.  She  was 
exceedingly  straight  arid  exceedingly  wide.  Every  year  in 
creased  her  apparent  size,  while  each  year  Timothy  grew 
narrower. 

While  the  gentlemen  outside  are  talking  about  the  storm, 
the  roads,  and  the  stage,  Nepenthe,  for  it  was  indeed  Nepen 
the  Stuart,  sits  within,  and  looks  listlessly  around  as  if  her 
heart  was  far  away.  She  was  not  quite  alone,  for  in  the 
corner  sits  Mrs.  Titus  in  the  rocking-chair,  occasionally 
looking  out  to  see  if  the  stage  from  the  other  direction  is 
coming. 

"  There  is  a  sense  of  light,  a  sense  of  emptiness,  a  sense 
of  loneliness  in  this  plain  room,"  thought  Nepenthe,  as  her 
eyes  rested  on  some  thing  hanging  over  the  mantel-piece. 

"  That  head  was  drawn  by  my  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Titus,  with 
a  low  tone  and  a  moist  eye.  "  It  was  taken  four  years  ago, 
and  Mr.  Longman  says  it  is  very  well  done." 

"  How  old  is  your  boy  ?"  said  Nepenthe. 

"  He  would  have  been  sixteen  the  tenth  of  this  month, 
had  he  lived,"  said  Mrs.  Titus  ;  "  but  won't  you  come  in  and 
see  him  ?" 

Nepenthe  followed  her  into  a  little  room  nicely  papered 
and  carpeted.  There  were  white  curtains  at  the  windows 
trimmed  with  neat  fringe,  and  looped  with  pink  muslin 
bands. 

"  That's  my  boy,"  said  the  mother,  as  she  drew  aside  the 
curtain,  so  that  the  light  fell  full  on  the  face  of  a  beautiful 
portrait  finely  executed  and  elegantly  framed  ;  "  that's  my 


136  NEPENTHE. 

boy.  It  cost  a  hundred  dollars,  but  I  would  not  take  thou 
sand  for  it." 

"  Was  his  name  Ernest  ?"  said  Nepenthe. 

"  Yes  ;  he  was  named  by  a  Frenchman  who  was  taken 
sick  some  where  on  the  road  and  brought  here.  He  named 
him,  and  every  year  after  he  sent  him  some  present.  He 
sent  him  the  last  two  years  pencils,  paper,  and  all  kinds  of 
things  to  draw  with.  Here  they  are,"  said  shfe,  taking  a  key 
and  opening  the  drawer  of  a  little  stand  in  the  corner,  "  they 
are  just  as  he  left  them.  I  can't  bear  to  touch  them,"  said 
she,  closing  the  drawer  again  and  locking  it  as  carefully  and 
gently  as  if  a  favorite  child  were  asleep  within. 

The  portrait  was  indeed  a  rare  Milesian  face,  with  the 
father's  black  hair  and  the  mother's  blue  eyes.  Such  a  face 
as  sometimes  greets  us,  surprises  and  attracts  us  in  some 
lowly  house  with  mediocrity  for  its  father  and  unrefined  sim 
plicity  for  its  mother.  It  bore  the  stamp  of  genius. 

Just  then  the  tall  man  stepped  inside  the  door,  and  asked 
in  his  deep  hollow  voice,  "  Is  the  young  woman  ready  ?" 

As  Nepenthe  stood  in  that  room  a  feeling  came  over  her, 
a  half  consciousness  that  she  had  been  there  before  Tbe 
pictures,  the  window,  the  table,  even  Mrs.  Titus  looked  fa 
miliar.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  been  there  before  in  some 
dream.  She  had  seen  those  curtains,  the  open  drawer,  the 
little  stand  with  the  Bible  on  it,  and  wlien  the  tall  man  came 
in,  she  knew  what  he  would  say :  "  Is  the  young  woman 
ready  ?" 

Are  there  not  prophetic  thoughts  hovering  like  sea-birds 
over  the  future  sailing  on  a  head  like  avaunt  coureurs  on  a 
road  through  which  we  afterwards  travel,  and  meeting  us  as 
we  pause  on  the  journey  with  the  greeting  "  I'm  here  before 
you  ?" 

Nepenthe  was  soon  seated  beside  Mr.  Carleyn  in  his  com 
fortable  carriage.  She  was  so  grateful  for  this  unexpected 
escort,  she  knew  not  what  to  say.  She  could  hardly  open 
her  lips  to  say  any  thing.  That  hackneyed  "  Much  obliged 
to  you,"  or  cold  "  Thank  you,"  which  means  every  thing  or 
nothing;  she  could  not  say  even  that.  She  broke  out  abruptly, 
as  we  are  apt  to  do  after  passing  through  great  dangers  and 
finding  ourselves  safe  at  last.  "  You  have  done  me  a  great 
kindness,  sir,"  she  said,  and  she  was  silent. 

Were  she  moulded  after  the  ordinary  type   of  artificial 


NEPENTHE.  137 

young  ladies,  she  would  have  begun  a  lively  conversation  ; 
but  no — she  was  silent. 

There  are  times  in  all  our  histories  when  it  is  a  trial  to 
talk,  when  we  feel  willing  to  endure  patiently,  to  suffer  si 
lently,  but  cannot  lift  off  the  burden  and  talk  lightly,  cheer 
fully,  and  we  are  unwilling  to  talk  sadly,  gloomily,  or  allow 
a  stranger  to  guess  our  sadness.  It  is  a  consolation  to  lock 
up  some  thoughts  in  the  safe  of  the  heart  secure  from  any 
mortal  eye. 

"  That  is  a  musical  voice,"  thought  Mr.  Carleyn  as  he 
said  politely,  "  we  are  coming  now  near  those  high  bushes  ; 
lean  back  in  the  carriage,  throw  your  veil  over  your  bon 
net,  as  the  drops  will  fall." 

"  Will  it  rain  again  ?"  said  Nepenthe,  half  frightened. 

"  0,  no  !  But  I  see  you  are  not  used  to  these  impromptu 
shower  baths.  This  road  ought  to  be  better,  and  these 
bushes  cut  down  ;  but  as  it  is  no  one's  particular  business, 
it  is  left,  and  it  is  very  uncomfortable  to  ride  along  this  way 
after  a  heavy  shower — but  lean  back,"  said  he,  throwing  his 
big  shawl  over  her  shoulders. 

True  enough^  just  then  there  came  an  actual  illustration 
of  his  remarks,  and  in  shielding  her  he  received  himself  the 
full  benefit  of  the  shower.  Who  was  Nepenthe  Stuart  rid 
ing  off  with  alone  ?  Who  this  unknown,  suddenly  appearing 
before  this  rude  cottage,  with  fleet  horse  and  comfortable 
carriage  1  Was  it  safe  so  to  place  herself  under  the  charge 
to  an  entire  stranger  and  alone  ?  All  the  stories  of  ac 
cidents  and  injuries  thus  incurred  by  young  ladies  carried 
off  into  wild  woods,  rushed  through  Nepenthe's  mind  when 
she  looked  up  into  his  faoe,  as  the  tall  man  so  unceremo 
niously  made  the  offer  of  her  company  to  Mr.  Carleyn.  But 
as  she  looked  into  his  face,  she  was  sure,  that  stranger  as 
he  was,  the  law  of  kindness  was  written  in  his  heart,  the  law 
of  politeness  written  on  his  lips,  the  law  of  honor  in  his  eye. 
She  had  so  dreaded  staying  all  night  in  that  uncomfortable 
house,  and  besides,  there  was  no  unoccupied  room  to  be  had, 
so  she  rode  calmly  along,  sure  of  safe  protection. 

Nature  is  such  an  informal  cicerone,  she  brings  people  to 
gether  so  unceremoniously,  and  they  chat  cozily  with  wild 
flowers,  or  green  leaves,  or  wayside  hills.  She  introduces 
us  with  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  smiling  on  us  in  a  beam  of 
sunshine,  makes  us  so  well  acquainted.  If  leaves  could  re- 


138  NEPENTHE. 

hearse  to  us  as  well  as  they  can  whisper  to  each  other,  how 
many  tales  could  they  repeat  of  confidential  chats  softly 
whispered  under  their  friendly  shade.  Out  under  the  true- 
hearted  sky,  before  the  open  face  of  Nature,  the  heart  will 
find  its  way  to  the  lips,  and  thoughts  are  severed  no  longer 
by  conventional  distances. 

They  traveled  on  till  they  came  to  a  turn  in  the  road,  at 
which  they  made  a  sudden  halt.  There  had  been  a  freshet. 
The  bridge  over  which  passengers  had  crossed  for  years  had 
been  carried  off.  The  only  way  was  to  go  back  a  mile  and 
round  the  other  unfrequented  road.  The  old  bush  road  it 
was  called,  and  it  was  only  a  kind  of  winding  path. 

"  You  will  have  to  ride  much  further  than  you  expected," 
said  the  young  man,  as  a  fine  blush  colored  his  face.  "  Tbe 
other  road  is  pleasant,  though  unfrequented.  It  is  long  and 
winding,  and  you  may  find  it  tedious.  It  is  more  like  a  path 
than  a  road.  I  am  glad  we  did  not  reach  here  at  night.  I 
might  have  urged  my  horse  on  without  noticing  the  missing 
bridge.  I  am  so  familiar  with  this  road  I  quite  often  drive 
along  here  carelessly,  if  my  thoughts  are  pre-occupied.  I 
often  drive  along  without  looking  up  ;  my  horse  knows  the 
way  as  well  as  I  do.  I  sometimes  think  he  goes  it  blind, 
too.  I  have  traveled  along  here  when  a  boy,"  said  he,  half 
sighing  as  he  turned  his  horse's  head  and  drove  back. 

There  was  something  in  the  cool,  invigorating  mountain 
air  which  refreshed  and  exhilarated  Nepenthe.  She  was 
young,  and  until  recently  had  had  little  care  or  sorrow  for 
the  last  four  years,  yet  this  ride  among  the  mountains  was 
to  her  new  and  delightful.  As  they  passed  through  the 
forest  they  saw  one  of  the  tallest  trees  lying  in  fragments 
on  the  ground,  the  trunk  shivered  to  splinters,  some  of 
which  were  sticking  in  the  ground  some  distance  off.  A 
gleam  of  sunshine  brightened,  just  then,  mountain,  forest, 
and  stream.  Nature  seemed  rejoicing  to  get  back  her  old 
pleasant  tone  and  look  again. 

"  How  much  we  are  affected  by  gleams  of  sunshine,"  said 
Nepenthe.  Her  face  brightened  up  as  she  looked  on  the 
clear  sky,  the  trees,  glowinsr  with  that  beautiful  emerald 
light,  the  sunshine,  leaves  o^Nature's  fair  face  wet  with  tears 
of  weeping  skies,  a  golden  emerald  light,  like  living,  breath 
ing,  human  joy. 


NEPENTHE.  139 

"Yes,"  said  Carleyn,  "there's  something  depressing  in  a 
long  storm,  a  gloomy  sky  and  shivering  leaves." 

As  the  sunshine  broke  through  the  branches  of  some  tall 
trees  along  which  they  now  rode,  it  made  his  own  face  radi 
ant. 

"  Nature's  moods  seem  contagious.  She  plays  with  our 
faces,  and  plays  with  our  hearts."  Says  Novalis,  '  Nature 
is  an  ^lolian  harp  ;  a  musical  instrument  whose  tones  again 
are  keys  to  higher  strings  in  us.' 

"  The  universal  character  of  the  law  of  Nature  is  univer 
sal  aptitude,  convenance,"  he  thought ;  the  word  seemed  so 
expressive  in  the  French  convenance,  he  only  half  uttered 
it  as  Nepenthe  whispered  it  to  herself. 

Mr.  Carleyn,  of  all  things  disliked  seeming  to  wish  to  im 
part  his  own  superior  knowledge  to  others  in  common  con 
versation  as  if  to  inform  them,  and  for  fear  they  might  be 
ignorant  of  the  French  language.  She  seldom  made  use  of 
a  French  word  in  common  conversation. 

Nepenthe  was  pleased  that  the  same  word  was  uttered  al 
most  by  both  at  the  same  time. 

Why  is  it  that  unsuggested  and  with  no  previous  commu 
nication,  two  beings  will  be  just  about  to  utter  or  utter  the 
same  thought  in  the  same  language — this  is  a  fact  in  psy 
chology — and  it  often  causes  a  sensation  of  great  pleasure  to 
two  persons. 

Mr.  Carleyn  talked  on,  and  we  will  listen  and  interrupt 
him  no  more  by  soliloquizing  ;  but  if  we  hear  others  talking, 
we  feel  like  breaking  in  and  talking  too.  We  fear  if  we 
wait,  we  would  lose  our  idea  that  is  trying  to  get  out,  and 
try  the  air  too. 

Did  you  ever  try,  reader,  to  hold  fast  an  idea,  waiting  for 
a  chance  to  utter  it,  fearing  if  it  escaped  your  memory,  it 
would  not  come  back  again  ?  Isn't  it  an  unpleasant  sensa 
tion  to  try  to  catch  and  hold  fast  an  idea  ?  How  forgetful- 
ness  chases  memory  around  at  "  hide  and  seek  "  behind  the 
curtains  of  the  soul,  and  then  when  at  last  your  time  comes 
to  speak,  the  word  you  were  saying  over  to  yourself  to  try 
and  remember,  you  can't  recall — and  you  are  really  vexed 
at  yourself  as  you  say,  "  Oh  !  dear  !  I  wish  I  could  think  of 
it,  but  it  has  escaped  my  mind."  The  little  prompter  be 
hind  the  stage  of  the  heart  is  a  very  uncertain  character. 

But  Carleyn  talked  on  as  they  rode  through  the  most  en- 


140  NEPENTHE. 

chanting  scenery,  and  Nature  is  a  good  prompter  for  extem 
pore  eloquence.  Who  said  Carleyn  ever  heard  of  a  man 
who  was  puzzled  for  words  or  ideas  either  out  in  the  woods  ? 
"  In  Nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy,''  says  Coleridge, 
"  yet  every  person  of  fine  feelings,  after  passing  through 
such  a  terrific  storm  as  we  have  to-day,  his  mind  wrought 
up  to  the  sublime  sense  of  danger,  must  have  felt  a  touch 
of  sadness  in  the  mingling  of  danger  and  security,  the  vivid 
flash  of  lightning,  followed  by  the  sweet  sunshine  of  repose. 
If  nature  has  so  many  moods,  is  it  a  wonder  that  we  are  so 
often  stirred  with  sorrow  or  thrilled  with  ecstacy." 

Poor  Nepenthe,  she  was  not  talking  of  shadows  of  might- 
he's  or  of  sentimentals.  She  was  sorrowful,  though  just 
then  in  tune  with  happy  nature.  She  was  homeless,  and 
like  a  "  bewildered  wanderer  she  stood,  shouting  question 
after  question  into  the  sybil  cave  of  Destiny,  and  receiving 
no  answer  but  an  echo." 

"  But  look  yonder,"  said  Carleyn,  "  do  you  see  that 
church  spire  through  the  trees  ?  There  is  a  little  village 
where  I  stayed  one  tiresome  week.  I  had  been  out  sketch 
ing,  and,  by  the  merest  accident,  I  sprained  my  ankle, 
and  was  laid  up.  There  is  a  church,  a  duck-pond,  an  acad 
emy  and  a  meeting-house.  They  are  the  three  central 
points  of  interest.  The  duck -pond  is  a  resort  for  all  the 
children.  It  is  omnibus,  hand-organ,  museum,  everything. 
The  academy  is  the  light  of  the  village.  There  country 
fairs,  exhibitions,  and  singing  schools  come  off — and  the 
meeting-house  is  the  rallying  place  for  all.  But  I  was  laid 
up  there  in  the  heart  of  the  village — in  a  house  in  the  prin 
cipal  street ;  the  sofa,  high-backed  and  hard,  on  which  I  was 
allowed  to  rest  by  day,  overlooked  the  street.  There  was  a 
stupid-looking  Dutchman's  house  in  front ;  the  clatter  of 
machinery  disturbed  the  most  pleasant  hours  of  the  day, 
and  the  incessant  barking  of  dogs  broke  the  repose  of  night. 
There  were  once  to  redeem  the  ill  looks  o  f  the  unsightly 
building  opposite,  flourishing  trees  ;  but  these  were  pros 
trated  long  since  by  some  wood-loving,  not  tree-loving 
Dutchman,  the  barking  of  whose  dogs  was  to  him  more 
agreeable  than  the  carolling  of  birds  in  waving  branches. 
At  earliest  dawn  worn  out  mules,  not  yet  rested  from  yes 
terday's  hard  toil,  dragged  by  heavy  loads  of  sand  or  earth. 
A  long  procession  of  these  carts  and  mules,  guided  by  toil- 


NEPENTHE.  141 

worn  men,  whose  life  was  literally  given  to  the  earth, 
earthy,  was  the  sure  harbinger  of  daybreak.  I  pitied  the 
inules,  and  I  pitied  the  men  :  for  me  the  necessity  of  doing 
just  the  same  things  at  the  same  unvarying  moments,  with 
no  alteration,  variation,  deviation,  relaxation,  is  intolerable 
botheration,  as  a  friend  of  mine  would  say.  That  friend 
spent  one  night  in  that  house,  and  there  happened  to  be 
there,  or  there  belonged  there,  he  says,  a  hundred  turkeys, 
but  he's  a  little  given  to  hyperbole.  They  were  there  for 
safe  keeping,  or  taken  on  execution,  and  they  did  execution, 
gobble,  gobble,  gobble,  all  night  long.  He  could  not  sleep, 
and  there  was  also  at  that  time,  a  piano  in  the  house,  wait 
ing  to  be  sold.  He  was  a  fine  musician,  and  to  still  the  tumult 
of  the  turkeys,  he  commenced  executing  on  the  piano,  and  the 
result  was,  the  much  admired  turkey  waltz,  which  he 
dedicated  to  me.  He  made  the  piano  talk,  and  the  imitation 
of  all  the  ancestral  and  juvenile  gobblers,  is  perfect.  'Tis 
probably  the  first  piece  of  music  suggested  by  so  fowl 
means. 

"  1  was  there  a  week,  and  it  seemed  the  longest  week  in 
my  life.  I  was  quite  ill  for  two  or  three  days  and  unable  to 
sleep.  We  had  bread  pudding  every  day  for  dessert  and 
there  were  chunks  of  bread  sticking  all  up  in  the  top  of 
the  pudding.  I  was  to  take  morphine  to  produce  sleep. 
But  it  had  no  soothing  effect.  My  nerves  were  as  keenly 
awake  as  if  I  had  taken  hasheesh.  While  under  the  iuHu- 
ence  of  morphine  the  nurse  came  in,  looking  much  taller 
and  narrower  than  usual.  Her  cap  frill  touched  the  wall, 
her  feet  the  floor,  and  she  held  in  her  band  a  huge  basin  of 
bread  pudding,  with  sundry  chunks  ornamenting  the  top. 
The  basin  was  at  least  ten  feet  in  circumference,  the  chunks 
of  bread,  looked  liked  miniature  mountains.  '  Know  young 
man,'  said  she,  authoritatively  '  you  must  swallow  this  pud 
ding  in  an  hour.'  Then  I  had  another  vision  after  this  horri 
ble  pudding.  I  must  confess  I've  never  liked  bread  pudding 
since. 

"  Long  processions  of  mules  and  men,  with  enormous  carts, 
kept  passing  and  repassing  my  bed.  The  men  were  giants, 
the  mules  equal  to  any  fossil  specimens  of  antediluvian  ani 
mals.  At  these  processions  I  was  obliged  to  look,  whether 
I  would  or  not.  Since  then,  I  never  look  on  these  poor 
men  carrying  earth  from  one  spot  to  another  in  the  sun  and 


142  NEPENTHE. 

in  the  rain,  in  the  heat  and  in  the  cold,  without  pity.  I  won 
der  if  they  never  tire  of  their  earth-march,  and  long  some 
times  to  move  off  into  some  other  path.' 

"  One  would  think,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  that  these  human 
clocks,  wound  up  to  the  same  unvarying  beat,  the  live- long 
year,  would  break  their  springs,  fold  their  hands,  strike  for 
freedom,  or  wind  up  despairingly  their  earth-march." 

"  There — there  goes  Captain  Jack  now,"  said  Carleyn. 
"  They  are  all  captains  in  that  village.  Captain  Jack,  Cap 
tain  Sam,  and  Captain  John.  And  then  there's  the  spot 
where  I  fell  from  my  horse.  I  was  glad  and  sorry  I  ever 
stayed  there.  I  was  glad,  for  I  met  Mr.  Selwyn,  the  kind 
est  friend  I  ever  had — one  to  whom  I  owe  all  my  success  in 
life." 

"  I  do  love  these  old  evergreens,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  shut 
up  in  the  heart  of  a  great  city  so  long.  It  is  delightful  to 
ride  through  these  green  fields,  and  over  these  wild  moun 
tains,  and  hear  the  wind  rushing  through  those  magnificent 
pines.  Last  Sabbath  evening,  one  verse  was  sung  in  church 
while  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  the  wind  blew  outside  so 
that  the  gas  just  over  my  head  flickered  and  almost  went  out. 
The  deep  tones  of  the  organ  added  sublimity  to  the  words. 

"  '  Howl,  winds  of  night,  your  powers  combine — 

Without  His  high  behest. 
Ye  cannot,  in  the  mountain  pine, 
Disturb  the  sparrow's  nest.' 

"  I  have  thought  of  these  words  since  we  rode  through 
these  woods.  The  pine  and  shadowy  evergreen  seem  as  the 
faces  of  dear  old  unaccomplished  friends." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Carleyn,  "  in  summer  we  have  our  beau 
tiful  shade-trees,  and  we  almost  forget  to  prize  these  quaint 
old  evergreens — they  are  not  brilliant  or  showy  ;  but  when 
summer  friends  and  summer  birds  have  left  us,  they  are 
with  us  still,  changeless  as  ever." 

"  Yes,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  in  this  great  drawing-room  of 
trees  there  are  many  graceful  willows,  elegant  maples,  and 
stately  poplars  ;  but  I  am  getting  a  profound  respect  for 
these  sires  of  the  forest — for  when  these  summer-hangings 
in  the  tree  drawing-room  are  down,  not  like  politicians  of  a 
month,  here  they  are  still,  holding  audience  to  the  cabinet 
of  the  winds,  receiving  unmoved  the  most  moving  addresses 
from  Eolus,  surely  they  claim,  by  nature,  the  highest  place 


NEPENTHE.  143 

on  the  emerald  throne.  The  forest  king,  robed  in  fur  that 
no  moth  can  consume,  lives  through  many  forest  dynasties, 
and  waves  his  sceptre  to  the  wooing  breezes." 

"  You,"  said  Mr.  Carleyn,  "  have  paid  youi*  tribute  of  re 
spect  and  admiration  to  the  forest  kings  ;  but  look,  see  that 
gorge  wood  yonder — those  '  tall,  dark  mountains,'  looking 
down  and  listening  mutely  to  those  rustic  serenaders,  smil 
ing  and  frowning  on  those  crystal  sheets  issuing  from  the 
rough  rocks,  stereotyped  in  murmurs,  printed  in  indelible 
associations  on  the  brow  of  nature  and  the  heart  of  man." 

"Yes,"  said  Nepenthe,  "I  envy  them  their  celebrity, 
bound  as  they  are  in  evergreens,  lettered  in  golden  sun 
beams,  wept  over  by  dew-drops,  puffed  by  the  breezes,  and 
heralded  among  the  stately  trees,  living  in  such  close  com 
munion,  that  stirring  tidings  may  spread  rapidly  through  the 
forest  city." 

"  How  can  anybody,"  said  Carleyn,  "  admire  more  houses, 
and  stores,  and  shows,  and  glittering  lamps,  when  they  can 
have  sun-beams,  and  dew-drops,  birds  and  trees,  wild  flow 
ers  and  waterfalls.  I  was  born  among  mountains,  and  the 
earth  seems  to  me  to  be  literally  and  spiritually  nearer  to 
Heaven,  among  mountainous  regions.  The  thoughts  are  en 
ticed  upward — from  valley  and  plain  they  ascend  the  moun 
tain  side — the  sublime  in  nature  wakes  the  sublime  in  us. 
If  I  couldn't  see  a  mountain  occasionally,  I  should  tire  of 
one  everlasting  level.  The  greatest  men  often  come  from 
mountainous  regions,  and  as  they  approach  the  last  dark 
valley,  how  they  long  for  one  look  at  the  old  mountains.  I 
have  felt,  when  leaving  a  group  of  mountains  where  I  had 
lived  for  days,  like  a  child  going  away  from  an  indulgent 
home  to  a  boarding-school.  I  had  that  choking  sensation, 
as  if  i  couldn't  half  breathe — I  was  expecting  to  be  home 
sick.  Those  lower  mountains  seem  like  nature's  dress-cir 
cle,  with  reserved  seats  for  best  thoughts. 

"  Nature,  high  priestess  of  art,  tireless  worker  in  the 
studio  of  time,  toils  patiently  for  human  needs  and  human 
comforts,  planting  lovely  flowers  in  the  niches  of  some 
lonely  rocks,  weaving  her  graceful  tapestry,  adorned  with 
cups  and  bells  and  wreaths  and  vines  ;  but  tired  at  last,  she 
dashes  offhand  into  one  grand  ideal  impulse,  one  high  flight 
of  fancy,  and  makes  her  chef  d'oeuvre,  one  eternal  picture, 
God's  grand  cathedral  mountain  turrets,  under  whose  colos- 


144  NEPENTHE. 

sal  arch  hides  the  key  passing  for  ages  down  the  grand  hie 
rarch  of  nature. 

"  Many  a  fervent  hope  climhs  up  the  mountain  minarets, 
to  the  celestial  city,  purer  and  holier  than  some  stifled 
prayer,  struggling  up  '  through  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted 
vault.'  I  took  an  old  uncle  to  the  city  once.  He  said  he 
should  tire  of  those  long  brick  rows — and  then  there  was 
ne'er  a  mountain  there.  The  scent  of  these  mountain  breezes 
lingers  round  the  old  leaves  of  the  heart  after  long  years  of 
absence.  Little  mountain  evergreens  keep  their  freshness 
in  the  heart's  herbarium,  while  we  press  the  dusty  highway, 
or  turn  the  musty  ledger.  These  mountain  memories,  like 
tented  angels,  have  encamped  about  my  heart,  guarding  it 
from  many  a  temptation  for  many  weary  years." 

"  For  years  !"  uttered  Nepenthe — and  then,  astonished  at 
her  frankness,  perhaps  presumption,  she  paused  suddenly. 

"  Yes — I  have  not  lived  many  years,  but  I  have  seen 
many  a  long  day  when  I  have  sent  out  my  heart  like  a  dove 
far  and  near  to  find  some  olive  leaf  of  comfort,"  said  Carleyn. 

They  stopped  the  carriage  and  threw  the  top  back,  as  they 
were  now  under  the  shadow  of  those  waving  branches  where 
matin  birds  were  warbling  as  they  looked  up  at  those  blue 
mountains  in  the  distance. 

"  I  have  often,"  said  Carleyn,  "  when  a  child,  looked  up 
to  that  tall  mountain  yonder,  and  wished  I  could  climb  to 
its  top.  I  felt  sure  if  I  could  only  reach  the  top,  I  could 
touch  the  golden  clouds,  and  grasp  the  stars,  Heaven  seemed 
so  near.  And  now,  when  I  see  some  great  object  I  wish  to 
attain,  it  rises  up  high  like  a  mountain  of  ambition,  mocking 
and  tempting  me  to  climb.  I  feel  if  I  could  only  reach  the 
summit,  I  could  touch  the  cloudy  skirt  of  Fame,  and  grasp 
the  stars  she  holds  in  her  hands.  Our  greatest  thoughts 
are  all  like  mountains,  whose  shadowy  summits  are  high  up 
from  the  low  plain  of  out  common  thoughts.  If  we  could 
only  climb  from  thought  to  thought  and  reach  the  summit 
of  our  highest  soul's  peak,  looking  into  Heaven  from  the  top 
of  our  giant  thoughts,  we  could  almost  scale  the  clouds  and 
touch  the  stars,  and  bring  Heaven  down  to  us.  We  do  not 
revere  that  we  tread  upon,  but  we  do  revere,  admire  and 
worship  that  for  which  we  have  to  climb,  pant  and  struggle. 
By  the  window  of  that  little  cottage  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 


NEPENTHE.  145 

tain,  I  have  sat  on  my  mother's  knee,  and  said  my  little 
prayer  : 

"  '  If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  iny  soul  to  take.' 

And  I  really  believed  if  I  did  die  in  my  sleep,  some  angel 
would  take  me  up  from  that  green  mountain  top  to  Heaven. 
I  thought  there  was  the  gate  through  which  angels  walked 
up  and  down  the  mountains  of  clouds  above,  which  seemed 
like  the  projected  shadows  of  the  mountains  beneath.  My 
mother  loved  mountains.  I  am  enthusiastic  about  them,  for 
in  that  little  cottage  at  the  foot  of  yonder  mountain,  one  Sab 
bath  evening,  my  young  mother  died.  It  seemed  to  me,  that 
with  transfigured  robes,  her  pure  spirit  climbed  the  moun 
tains  she  loved,  till  it  ascended  to  walk  through  the  open 
gates  of  Paradise. 

"  I  remember  my  mother's  telling  me  those  mountains 
often  called  her  thoughts  up  to  Heaven.  Now  she  is  gone, 
I  associate  these  mountains  with  thoughts  of  Heaven.  Her 
happy  spirit,  far  above  me,  may  now  be  climbing  some  lofty 
spirit  range,  some  sapphire  ridge  of  glory,  some  golden  peak 
of  immortality.  Her  soul  may  climb  forever,  rising  higher 
and  higher  in  exalted  perspective  of  bliss,  warbling  as  it 
soars  from  peak  to  peak  of  glory,  gaining  ne\v  views  of  the 
river  of  the  water  of  life,  winding  beneath,  and  those  glis 
tening,  pearly  gates,  on  which  the  sun  never  sets. 

"  Sacred  is  the  memory  of  mountains,  for  there,  lighted 
by  vestal  stars,  the  great  High  Priest  went  up,  entering  the 
veil  of  curtained  clouds,  baptizing  the  mountain's  brow 
with  the  divine  tears  of  sympathizing  humanity. '' 

I  hope  Levi  Longman,  that  inane  and  buckram  individual, 
so  fond  of  the  exact  sciences,  so  indefatigable  in  calculating 
the  sum  of  probabilities,  will  never  read  the  conversation 
recorded  in  the  foregoing.  He  would  shake  his  head,  shrug 
his  shoulders,  frown  his  eye-brows,  and  say,  "  Strange,  that 
two  persons,  entire  strangers,  should  talk  so  long  about 
dreams,  trees,  and  mountains."  He  would  call  it  highfalu- 
tin,  stilted.  Stilted  was  a  favorite  word  of  his.  But  it  is 
a  long  time  since  he  was  young.  His  imagination  was  born 
blind  and  lame,  so  he  has  never  taken  any  flights  of  fancy. 
He  never  dreams,  day-dreams  nor  night-dreams — he  always 
sleeps  right  through,  like  a  sensible  man.  There  is  a  sign 
on  the  front  door  of  Levi's  brain,  which  any  one  that  sees 

7 


146  NEPENTHE. 

him  can  read  :  "  To  these  head-quarters,  no  admittance  ex 
cept  on  business." 

Levi  feels  no  spiritual  shocks  of  joy  or  sorrow,  sensible  to 
nothing  but  "  positive  cuff's  and  downright  hard  blows." 
Levi  Longman's  and  Frank  Carleyn's  spiritual  horizon 
might  stretch  on  like  parellcl  lines  for  years,  forever,  they 
would  never  meet  or  harmonize.  Levi  was  an  unexcitable  nil 
admirart  man — Carlcyn  had  a  soul  coated  with  sensibility, 
on  whose  surface  every  passing  thought  daguerreotyped 
itself. 

Most  everybody  has  solemn  and  enthusiastic  thoughts  at 
times.  Frank  Carleyn  differed  from  most  of  us  in  this — be 
thought  aloud  ;  and  Nepenthe's  life  had  been  so  real  that 
none  but  her  real  thoughts  came  to  her  lips. 

"  Why  did  Nepenthe  Stuart  go  to  the  Elliott's  ?"  said  the 
voice  of  a  lady  in  close  conversation  with  an  old  friend,  on 
the  deck  of  a  southern  steamer,  two  months  after  this  moun 
tain  ride  through  Titusville  road.  "  She  can't  be  very 
happy  there,  for  Mary  Lamont  heard  Miss  Florence  talking 
with  her  mother  the  day  after  Miss  Stuart's  arrival.  She 
heard  Florence  say  in  her  overbearing  way,  '  I'll  know  why 
this  Stuart  girl  is  here.  I  think  her  presence  an  intrusion. 
We  have  lived  here  so  long  interrupted,  I  don't  see  why 
you  have  brought  her  here.' 

"  '  It  was  not  to  gratify  you  that  she  came,'  said  Mrs. 
Elliott.  '  I  have  reasons  I  do  not  choose  to  tell.  I  cannot 
be  opposed  in  this  matter.  I  am  under  obligations  of  which 
you  know  nothing,  and  of  which  you  never  can  know.'  " 


NEPENTHE.  T4T 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

CARLEYN    AT   WORK. 

"  The  past  is  very  tender  at  my  heart ; 
Full,  as  the  memory  of  an  ancient  friend, 
When  once  again  we  stand  beside  his  grave. 
Halting  amongst  old  papers  thrown  in  haste 
'Mid  useless  lumber,  unawares  I  came- 
On  a  forgotten  poem  of  my  youth. 
I  went  aside  and  read  each  faded  page, 
Warm  with  dead  passion,  sweet  with  buried  Junes, 
Filled  with  the  light  of  suns  that  are  no  more. 
I  stood  like  one  who  finds  a  golden  tress 
Given  by  loving  hands  no  more  on  earth,  / 
And  starts,  beholding  how  the  dust  of  years. 
Which  dims  all  else,  has  never  touched  its  light.' 

THERE  was  no  light  from  the  world  around.  Down 
through  the  sky-light  above,  it  shone  clear  and  pure.  None 
but  the  stars  looked  in,  where  art  and  the  artist  held  high 
communion.  Weary  feet  grew  tired  as  they  climbed — but 
the  long  flight  of  steps  once  ascended,  they  found  fair  and 
bright  thoughts  resting  there,  which  had  climbed  far  higher 
ideal  flights 

Night  and  day  toiled  the  artist  to  bring  out  on  canvass  in 
the  face  God  had  made,  the  soul  he  had  so  mysteriously  half 
hidden,  half  revealed. 

There  was  one  picture  on  the  easel  nearly  finished.  To 
the  rapt  artist,  that  one  picture  seemed  the  whole  world,  as 
he  added  the  last  touches,  and  stood  back  and  gazed,  and 
gazed  again.  "  It  is  done,  and  well  done,"  said  he.  "  I 
have  succeeded.  I  will  call  it  Dawn — 'the  expression  of  that 
face  has  dawned  upon  my  soul  like  some  radiant  mountain 
sunrise." 

He  held  his  hand  on  his  tired  forehead,  and  gazed  again. 
Not  often  did  he  thus  dwell  in  the  land  of  the  ideal,  and 
this  was  his  first  ideal.  He  had  painted  week  in  and  week 
out,  the  portraits  of  dull  living  faces,  for  money,  winning 
fame,  and  fame's  golden  reward.  He  wished  he  was  never 


148  NEPENTHE. 

obliged  to  handle  money,  he  always  dreaded  to  ask  for  it, 
when  his  labors  were  finished.  His  soul  was  so  peopled 
and  crowded  with  beautiful  visions,  he  longed  to  paint  them 
— but  this  one  picture  is  the  only  idea  he  could  now  afford 
leisure  to  take.  He  would  not  sell  it  for  any  sum.  He 
couldn't  tell  why  he  painted  it,  only  the  lovely  face  seemed 
ever  looking  in  at  the  door  of  his  soul,  pleading  with  earnest 
eyes,  "  Paint  me — am  I  not  beautiful  V 

"  This  may  be  the  dawn  of  my  future  fame,"  thought  he  ; 
"  it  is  better  finished  than  any  of  my  old  pictures.  Let  me 
put  it  where  the  first  morning  light  will  dawn  upon  it." 

"  Come,"  said  Douglass,  one  morning,  as  he  met  his  friend 
Selwyn,  "  let's  go  in  and  look  at  Carleyn's  studio.  If  he 
has  no  one  sitting  with  him,  we'll  look  around.  He's  a  fine 
fellow — I'd  like  you  to  know  him." 

"  1  don't  care  to  visit  any  more  studios,"  said  Selwyn, 
dejectedly  ;  "  I  have  recently  visited  the  picture  gallery  of 
Dresden,  which  is  a  perfect  palace  and  paradise  of  art. 
There  are  more  than  twenty-two  hundred  pictures,  and  none 
of  them  are  inferior.  There  is  one  known  all  over  America 
by  plates,  but  I  wish  you  could  see  it  there  in  the  original. 
It  is  Raphael's  Madonna.  I  think  this  picture  must  affect 
any  man,  if  he  were  not  a  clod.  It  represents  the  Virgin 
Mary  as  ascending  to  Heaven  with  the  child  in  her  arms  ; 
one  of  the  Popes  and  St.  Barbara  at  her  feet,  and  beneath, 
two  angelic  children.  The  faces  of  these  children  and  St. 
Barbara  are  very  beautiful,  but  the  power  of  the  picture  is 
in  the  soaring,  in  the  majesty  ascending  form  of  the  Virgin. 
It  stands  by  itself,  in  a  room  set  apart  for  it  alone.  As  I 
entered  the  door,  the  picture  came  over  me  like  a  spell. 

"  Beautiful  as  are  all  the  other  paintings,  the  transition  to 
this  is  abrupt  and  great.  I  have  seen  demi-gods  of  Phidias. 
I  have  visited  galleries  of  Venice,  Genoa,  and  Florence.  I 
have  looked  at  French  copies  and  Italian  originals  and  Ame 
rican  imitations.  I  take  no  interest  in  anything  now.  I 
wish  to  form  no  new  acquaintances  " — but  as  he  saw  how 
disappointed  his  friend  looked,  he  added,  "  I  will  go  if  you 
wish  it,  if  the  artist  is  a  friend  of  yours." 

Reader,  have  you  never  seated  yourself  in  the  morning 
for  a  good,  quiet,  comfortable  day  at  home,  when  some  sud 
den  impulse  or  persuasion  has  led  you,  half  against  your 
will  and  wishes,  to  start  out  and  go  into  some  out  of  the  way 


NEPENTHE.  149 

place  ?  You  go  and  you  meet — 'tis  the  merest  accident,  you 
say — you  meet  and  almost  push  by  him  in  the  crowd,  a  dear 
old  friend,  the  node  of  whose  eccentric  life-orbit  chances  to 
be  that  one  day  in  that  particular  spot  such  a  greeting  and 
such  a  meeting.  "  Why,  where  did  you  come  from  ?"  you 
each  exclaim.  "  You  are  the  last  person  I  expected  to  see 
here."  You  sit  down  together,  talk  over  old  times,  deaths 
and  marriages  of  mutual  friends.  You  hear  so  much  news, 
such  strange  things  have  happened,  the  day  wears  away,  and 
it  is  four  o'clock  before  you  know  it.  With  a  cheerful  "  God 
bless  you,"  you  part,  and  every  little  bud  of  memory  has 
had  a  fresh  sprinkling  of  sympathy,  and  holds  up  its  dewy 
head  like  a  violet  after  a  shower,  perfuming  the  whole  heart. 
So  your  life  streams  part  again,  and  you  old  friends  meet 
no  more,  and  no  white  sails  on  life's  wide  sea  shall  ever 
speak  return  to  you.  Such  a  glad  surprise  to  Carleyn  was 
Mr.  Selwyn's  sudden  entrance  into  his  studio. 

As  Mr.  Selwyn  walked  around  the  room,  he  said,  "  My 
likes  are  not  artistic.  I  am  no  amateur,  yet  I  think  I 
have  some  idea  of  a  good  portrait.  Were  I  an  artist,  I 
would  always  send  portraits  of  handsome  subjects  to  public 
exhibitions.  People  are  apt  to  think  more  of  a  handsome 
picture  than  a  very  correct  one.  They  will  pass  by  admira 
bly  executed  portraits  of  plain  faces,  and  linger  before  some 
handsome  picture  with  glossy  hair,  brilliant  eyes,  and  ruby 
lips.  For  myself,  I  am  often  more  interested  in  a  plain  face 
than  a  mere  handsome  one.  A  fine  expression  flashes  more 
wonderfully  over  plain  features.  Every  face  that  shows  the 
soul  best,  gets  to  bo  handsome  to  us.  I  have  heard  many 
an  eloquent  man  speak  who  had  a  most  awkward  physiog 
nomy.  I  have  listened  until  the  highest  admiration  for  such 
powers  of  mind  revealed  by  pen  and  tongue  so  associated 
the  soul  with  the  face,  and  the  face  with  the  soul,  that  the 
individual,  in  spite  of  long  nose,  large  mouth,  dull  eyes, 
looked  well.  '  I  wouldn't  alter  that  face  if  I  could,'  I  say. 
I  like  its  individuality.  The  lips  are  ennobled  by  the  words 
they  utter,  the  eyes  beautified  by  the  soul  they  reveal. 
There  are  people  so  good  and  noble,  in  spite  of  plain  fea 
tures,  we  call  them  fine  looking.  Handsome  homely  people 
they  are.  There  is  a  queer,  quaint,  striking  contrast  be 
tween  these  roughly-moulded  features  and  the  strong,  beau 
tiful,  soul-light  flashing  over  them." 


150  NEPENTHE. 

"  It  is  amusing  to  see,"  said  Carleyn,  "  how  the  mass  of 
people  are  influenced  in  the  same  way.  If  a  man  is  great, 
gifted  and  popular,  they  will  be  sure  to  see  something  pecu 
liarly  interesting  in  the  way  his  hair  grows  around  his  fore 
head,  or  in  the  glance  of  his  eye,  or  the  curve  of  his  eye 
brow,  and  the  very  young  ladies  will  even  find  some  thing 
so  interesting  in  the  tie  of  his  cravat.  Few  ever  call  an 
acknowledged  great  man  homely.  They'll  see  some  thing 
striking  about  him.  If  he  is  awkward,  it  is  scholarly  ;  if  ab 
sent  minded,  reflective  ;  if  conceited,  dignified  ;  till,  by-and- 
by,  we  all  get  thinking  every  thing  he  says  sounds  well  and 
he  always  looks  well.  But  in  a  picture  you  can't  so  express 
the  full  power  of  symmetrical  mind  over  homely  features  ; 
as  you  can  feel  and  see  it  when  a  face  lives,  moves  and 
speaks.  I  like  that  crayon  portrait.  A  crayon  portrait  has 
a  rare  charm  of  its  own.  The  effect  is  decidedly  unity,  a  con 
centration  of  soul  in  the  face  ;  with  no  vivid  coloring  to 
heighten  effect,  no  glowing  drapery,  nothing  to  divert  the 
artist's  attention  from  his  one  purpose — the  correct  outline 
and  the  true  expression.  A  fine  crayon  drawing  seems 
more,  to  me,  like  the  shadow  of  the  soul  than  any  other  kind 
of  portrait,  giving  a  faint  conception  of  the  look  of  those 
white-robed  ones  with  whom  we  never  associate  glowing 
drapery  or  vivid  coloring." 

"  There  is  a  picture,"  said  Carleyn,  "  I  have  just  had  sent 
back  to  retouch.  It  is  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  John  Pridefit.  I 
did  my  best,  but  did  not  satisfy  the  sitter.  She  really 
wants  it  more  beautiful,  yet  her  friends  say  it  flatters  her 
now.  She  says  the  eyes  are  too  sharp,  the  lips  too  thin,  but 
the  fault  is  in  her  face,  not  in  the  picture.  A  lady  often 
wants  to  have  her  own  features  taken  as  a  kind  of  back 
ground,  and  then  have  it  filled  up  and  beautified  with  all 
kinds  of  ideal  hues,  and  glows,  and  lines.  It  is  very  diffi 
cult  for  me  to  take  the  portraits  of  people  I  dislike.  I  am 
afraid  I  don't  really  do  them  justice.  This  Mrs.  Pridefit 
fusses  and  prims  so  much,  it  is  difficult  to  give  her  the  '  fine 
expression,  she  says  she  wants.  Some  seem  to  think  I 
keep  a  box  of  fine  expressions  to  put  on  my  portraits  just  as 
they  put  on  smiles  when  they  go  into  their  parlors  to  receive 
callers." 

"  A  picture,"  said  Selwyn,  "  often  looks  better  than  the 
original.  It  is  almost  always  handsomer  or  homelier.  I 


NEPENTHE.  151 

can't  see  why  ladies  want  their  portrait  to  looks  better  than 
they  really  do.  It  is  so  mortifying  to  hear  people  say  of 
one's  portrait,  '  It  is  a  very  handsome  picture,  but  it  looks  a 
great  deal  better  than  she  does,' — but  sometimes  I  have  no 
ticed  in  daguerreotypes  people  look  pretty  who  never  look 
pretty  any  where  else.  Mrs.  Pridefit  says  she  always  makes 
good  photographs." 

"  The  face  of  every  true  woman  wears,  at  times,  a  beauti 
ful  expression,"  said  Carleyn.  "  I  want  to  come  in  contact 
with  the  soul,  to  watch  the  face  in  its  various  soul  moods,  to 
see  it  in  its  thoughtful,  tearful,  or  mirthful  moments.  I  like 
even  to  know  its  history,  for  the  most  important  events  of  a 
life  have  and  leave  their  traces  on  the  face  ;  and  if  you  watch 
it  long  and  see  it  often,  you  can  read  the  outline  of  the  life's 
history,  the  noble  epic  of  some  heroic  or  weather-beaten 
soul  carved  in  wrinkles,  translated  in  patient  smiles,  em 
phasized  with  sighs,  and  margined  with  tears. 

"  We  love  our  friends  for  their  souls,  and  if  I  know  the 
sitter  well,  I  can  bring  out  the  best  expression — the  expres 
sion  worn  when  thinking  kind  thoughts  alone,  or  genially 
communing  with  others.  How  different  every  friend  we 
have  looks  when  we  come  to  know  him  well,  from  what  he 
did  when  we  first  saw  him  ;  it  is  almost  like  two  faces — the 
way  he  looked  when  we  first  saw  him,  and  the  familiar  ex 
pression  we  get  to  know  so  well  at  last.  AVe  can  hardly 
close  our  eyes  and  recall  that  first  look.  We  saw  only  the 
outline  of  the  features,  the  color  of  his  hair  and  eyes,  but 
now  we  know  how  he  talks,  smiles,  looks.  He  always  does 
so  and  so,  he  has  his  way  of  smiling,  that  makes  him  so  un 
like  any  body  else.  Often  we  say,  '  I  thought  him  homely 
at  first,  but  now  he  looks  handsome  to  me.'  To  get  this 
natural  and  familiar  expression  is  the  artist's  aim — for  this 
look  the  soul  will  wear  when  the  body  is  cast  aside." 

"  We  don't  know  how  we  look  ourselves,"  said  Douglass. 
"  We  look  in  the  glass,  but  who  ever  has  on  his  best,  most 
natural  expression,  when  toileting  before  a  mirror  ?  I  can't 
help  it,  but  I  sometimes  think  I'd  like  to  come  out  of  my 
self  for  once,  and  be  in  some  corner,  and  see  myself  sitting 
in  another  corner  opposite  me — I'd  like  to  know  for  once, 
how  I  really  do  look.  Sometimes  I  think  I  am  quite  a  de 
cent-looking  man,  and  then  again  I  am  positive  I  am  intoler- 


152  NEPENTHE. 

ably  ugly,  and  if  I  were  a  woman,  I'd  always  wear  a 
veil." 

"  But  the  veiled  gentlemen,"  said  Carleyn,  "  would  not 
be  as  interesting  or  romantic  an  object  as  the  veiled  lady. 
We  gentlemen  must  come  right  out  on  all  occasions  with 
our  plain,  unveiled,  unadorned  face,  without  the  advantage 
of  one  of  those  pretty,  little,  fine,  soft,  elaborate  black  lace 
veils,  through  which  modifying  medium  so  many  women 
look  so  very  fair  and  fascinating. 

"  It  is  a  very  pretty  drapery,  too,  a  kind  of  shade  through 
which  they  can  quietly  look  out  on  the  world  though  the 
world  can't  fully  gaze  at  them." 

"  I  rather  like  a  veil ;  there  is  an  air  of  refinement  about 
it." 

"  I  suppose  Mrs.  Carleyn  will  always  wear  a  veil,"  said 
Douglass,  laughing. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Carleyn,  smiling.  "No  rude  sun,  or 
sharp  wind,  must  spoil  her  beautiful  complexion,"  and  he 
thought,  though  he  didn't  say  so,  "  how  pleasant  it  would  be 
to  say  some  time,  '  this  is  my  wife's  veil.'  But  I  don't 
mean,"  he  added,  aloud,  "  one  of  those  great,  thick,  blue, 
long  veils,  through  which  all  ladies  look  alike,  and  it  is  im 
possible  to  know  who  they  are." 

"  An  artist's  profession  is  an  anxious  one,"  said  Carleyn. 
11  No  matter  how  many  portraits  he  executes,  each  must  be 
as  satisfactory  to  the  new  sitter,  as  well  executed,  as  if  it 
were  the  picture  on  which  the  artist's  name  and  fame  de 
pended.  That  one  picture  will  be  a  gratification  or  disap 
pointment  to  some  family  ;  wherever  it  goes,  it  may  be  the 
only  representative  in  that  locality  of  the  artist's  name — the 
single  picture  giving  its  individual  verdict  of  his  genius. 
Stranger  judges  will  say  he  paints  well  or  ill,  as  that  picture 
fails  or  suits  ;  and  then  all  the  beauty  of  some  face  may  be 
its  expression,  and  such  a  face  may  be  one  of  those  never 
at  rest,,  we  never  think  of  its  being  still ;  and  if  we  paint  a 
stationary  smile,  it  will  look  like  a  grin :  if  we  leave  it  off, 
then  the  mouth  will  be  unnatural,  prim  and  sober." 

"  To  catch  one  of  these  animated  smiles,  is  about  as  easy 
as  to  daguerrotype  a  shooting  star  or  falling  tear  ;  and  then 
the  sides  of  some  faces  are  not  alike.  That  portrait  I  paint 
ed  yesterday,  I  had  to  take  each  side  of  the  face  by  itself; 
they  were  most  as  different  as  two  faces. 


NEPENTHE.  153 

"  I  must  confess  I  feel  discouraged  sometimes,  when  I 
think  that  after  a  few  years,  all  my  portraits  will  be  cracked 
and  defaced  in  some  garret.  They'll  be  tattered  and  torn, 
soiled  and  defaced,  in  the  attic  style  after  all. 

"  Old  sofas  and  chairs  are  used  somewhere,  but  old  por 
traits  almost  always  go  up  garret.  So  here  I  stand  and 
paint  for  posterity's  garrets.  Isn't  it  a  dubious  immortal 
ity  ?  If  I  wrote  a  wonderful  book  of  poems,  that  would 
always  keep  in  fashion." 

Mr.  Selwyn  looked  at  the  different  pictures,  and  then 
stopped  as  if  riveted  to  one  spot,  spell-bound,  before  one 
painting. 

"  Is  that  a  portrait,  sir  ?"  said  he,  turning  suddenly  and 
addressing  Carleyn,  with  some  new  emotion  struggling  in 
his  eye. 

"  I  call  it  an  ideal,"  said  Carleyn.  "  I  have  just  finished 
it.  Perhaps  the  expression  of  the  face  dawned  upon  me 
once  in  a  thunder-storm,  on  a  wild  country  road,  in  an  old 
house.  I  call  it  an  ideal,  and  yet  the  expression  flashed  up 
on  me  from  that  face.  One  of  the  first  portraits  I  took,  was 
in  that  same  old  house.  It  was  that  of  a  beautiful  youth, 
Earnest  Titus.  I  have  been  asked  many  a  time  to  send  it 
to  the  Academy,  but  the  mother  will  never  part  with  it  a 
day.  She  spends  hours  in  that  little  room  sitting  beside  it." 

"  Would  you  sell  that  picture  ?"  said  Mr.  Selwyn. 

"  I  prefer  to  keep  it.  It  is  more  valuable  to  me  than  it 
can  be  to  another,"  said  Carleyn. 

"  Will  you  paint  a  miniature  on  ivory  just  like  it,  and  get 
that  expression,  only  make  the  hair  a  little  darker,  and  the 
lips  not  quite  so  full  ?  That  is  a  beautiful  name,  dawn.  If 
I  were  to  paint  anything,"  he  thought  gloomily,  "  I  should 
call  it  midnight." 

More  gloomy  than  ever  looked  Mr.  Selwyn  as  he  walked 
homeward  with  his  friend  who  tried  to  rally  him. 

"  Stop  thinking  of  that  gloomy  subject ;  divert  your 
thoughts,"  said  Mr.  Douglass.  "  Court  sleep  ;  you  are  too 
young  ;  life  has  yet  much  for  your  enjoyment ;  too  much  to 
give  up  to  gloomy  reflections  ;  you'll  wear  yourself  out  think 
ing.  Act,  enjoy,  use  the  present,  forget  the  past." 

"  You  bid  me  travel,"  said  Selwyn,  "  to  gaze  on  land  and 
sea,  and  moon  and  sky,  commune  with  nature,  revel  in  art. 

7* 


154  NEPENTHE. 

I  have  travelled.     I  went  last  year  to  Milan,   and  then   to 
Genoa,  and  thence  to  Leghorn,  Pisa  and  Rome. 

"  Genoa  is  famous  among  the  Italian  cities  for  the  number 
and  splendor  of  its  palaces  and  so  has  received  the  title  of 
'  The  Superb,'  for  the  Italians  have  a  pretty  way  of  giving 
their  chief  cities  some  descriptive  title.  In  Leghorn,  which 
was  the  next  place  at  which  I  stopped,  there  is  not  much  to 
see  besides  straw  hats,  glass,  paper  and  soap.  There  are 
about  as  many  things  of  interest  there  as  there  are  snakes 
in  Ireland — that  is,  none  at  all.  It  is  rather  strange,  too, 
for  most  every  Italian  city,  even  when  small,  has  either  a 
fine  cathedral  or  some  fine  work  of  art.  I  went  to  Pisa  to 
see  the  cathedral  and  the  famous  leaning  tower,  over  which, 
when  a  school-boy  studying  geography,  I  wondered  so  much, 
and  over  which  Galileo  made  the  old  churchmen  wonder 
when  he  performed  from  it  his  experiments  with  falling 
bodies.  But  I  couldn't  begin  to  tell  you  all  I  saw  in  Rome. 
Three  civilizations,  an  Etruscan,  Roman  and  Christian,  have 
conspired  to  make  it  the  most  interesting  city  in  the  world. 
The  number  and  grandeur  of  the  relics  of  old  Rome  surpass 
anything  I  had  imagined.  Whatever  the  Romans  built,  they 
built  grand,  massive  and  solid,  as  if  they  were  fully  per 
suaded  that  Rome  was  to  be  the  Eternal  City.  Had  no  bar 
baric  violence  overthrown  and  demolished  them,  hundreds 
of  her  structures  would  stand  to-day  more  perfect  than  the 
Pantheon,  and  even  now,  many  an  old  column  and  arch  stands 
as  solid,  and  presses  the  ground  as  firmly  as  when  first 
erected.  Everywhere  you  turn  yourself,  you  will  see  some 
old  ruin  lifting  its  head  picturesquely  against  the  sky.  It  is 
a  long,  fatiguing  walk  to  go  through  all  the  rooms  and  see  the 
enormous  treasures,  works  of  antique  art,  which  have  been 
found  and  preserved  in  the  Capitol  and  the  Vatican.  Nor 
in  point  of  art  does  modern  Rom'e  fail  to  rival  the  ancient  in 
interest.  She  is  crowded  with  the  miracles  of  the  great 
master.  I  wish,  if  you  never  have,  you  would  read  Haw 
thorne's  book,  called  Transformation.  As  far  it  goes,  it  is 
an  excellent,  accurate  description  of  Rome.  Most  of  his 
criticisms  seem  to  me  superb.  Hilda's  tower  has  verily  a 
local  habitation  and  a  name,  for  I  have  seen  it,  but  whether 
any  such  being  as  Hilda  ever  inhabited  it,  I  cannot  say.  I 
made  two  long  visits  at  Rome.  I  stayed  some  hours  for  sev 
eral  days  in  the  museum  at  Naples,  where  are  the  articles 


NEPENTHE.  155 

found  during  the  excavation  of  Ilerculancum  and  Pompeii. 
We  had  a  splendid  day  and  a  fine  party  for  making  the  as 
cent  of  Vesuvius.  Many  persons  came  back  disappointed, 
because  even  in  quiet  weather  the  smoke  is  blown  about  so 
one  can  scarcely  see  anything.  We  had  a  favorable  day, 
and  I  enjoyed  the  excursion  immensely.  One  gets  so  little 
idea  of  a  real  live  crater  from  books.  One  must  see  the 
monster,  to  have  any  faint  conception  of  the  lava  fields  and 
enormous,  bellowing,  smoking  crater.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  on 
some  other  planet,  they  were  so  different  from  anything  I 
had  ever  seen.  I  had  some  singular  sensations  at  Pompeii, 
for  here  is  a  veritable  old  Roman  city  with  streets,  houses, 
temples,  gates,  fountains,  baths,  tombs,  mosaic  paintings, 
laid  bare  to  the  sun,  so  you  tread  where  its  inhabitants  trod 
two  thousand  years  ago.  I  saw  many  of  the  articles  there 
found  and  preserved,  in  the  museum  at  Naples.  I  had  a 
charming  ride  at  Sorrento,  just  across  the  bay  from  Naples. 
We  plucked  the  fresh  fruit  from  the  trees  of  the  beautiful 
orange  groves,  and  visited  a  little  island,  near  where  was  a 
grotto  and  some  water  with  a  peculiar  bluish  lustre.  I  was 
at  Rome  during  the  ceremonies  of  the  Holy  Week.  They 
are  the  most  imposing  in  all  the  pompous  ritual  of  the  Ro 
mish  church.  On  Easter  Sunday,  when  the  Pope  elevated 
the  host,  and  all  the  long  line  of  splendid  military  in  St. 
Peters  and  all  good  Catholics  went  down  as  by  one  accord 
on  their  knees,  and  adored  in  a  silence  broken  at  length  by 
a  beautiful  burst  of  silver  trumpets,  the  scene  was  quite 
imposing.  The  washing  and  kissing  of  the  Apostles'  feet 
by  the  Pope  was  a  mere  form,  for  they  were  already  as  clean 
as  water  could  make  them.  Not  so  with  the  washing  of  the 
pilgrim's  feet,  for  they  were  dirtier  than  mud.  Italy  lies 
behind  me  like  a  rich  dream,  for  nature  has  made  it  a  para 
dise  in  loveliness,  and  art  has  beautified  from  Venice  to 
Sicily  a  land  she  could  not  save. 

"  Florence  is  the  most  delightful  of  Italian  cities  to  me, 
certainly  it  is  the  loveliest.  It  is  in  the  midst  of  a  lovely 
valley,  the  most  charmingly  verdant  spot  I  ever  saw  ;  with 
every  varying  shade  of  green,  from  the  light  of  the  olive,  to 
the  dark  of  the  pine.  Of  the  pictures  in  the  galleries  at 
Dresden,  Rome  and  Florence,  you  can  believe  every  thing 
that  you  hear,  for  they  are  absolutely  wonderful.  It  would 


156  NEPENTHE. 

seem  impossible  that  so  much  great  and  varied  expression 
ever  could  be  transferred  to  canvas. 

"  There  is  a  statue  in  Florence  of  the  Venus  de  Medici, 
so  famous  the  world  over  ;  yet  I  saw  standing  by  my  side 
some  who  failed  to  like  it,  it  seemed  to  me  for  no  better  rea 
son  than  that  it  is  old  and  tarnished,  and  the  arms  and  hands 
badly  restored.  With  the  exception  of  these  arms  and  hands, 
I  have  never  seen  such  grace  and  elegance. 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  a  few  moments'  talk  with  Gari 
baldi.  I  was  charmed  with  his  perfect  simplicity  and  un- 
affectedness  of  manner.  The  people  of  Italy  almost  worship 
him.  I  saw  where  he  first  entered  the  Sardinian  chambers  ; 
and  as  he  was  going  into  the  building,  they  crowded  about 
him  with  uncontrollable  enthusiasm.  It  is  a  good  thing  for 
a  nation  which  long  oppression  has  made  extremely  selfish, 
to  have  one  man  whom  they  can  genuinely  love,  who  can 
draw  out  from  every  breast  its  nobler  sympathies." 

"  But,"  added  Selwyn,  coming  back,  to  his  own  thougnts 
again,  "  I  shall  travel  no  more  ;  wherever  I  go,  I  carry  an 
unhappy,  restless  traveller  with  me,  my  own  aching,  sor 
rowing,  broken  heart,  whose  constant  beat  seems  only  like 
that  of  a  sleepless 'sentinel,  waking  me  out  of  every  pleasant 
dream,  calling  me  back  every  hour  to  bitter  memories.  I 
hear  every  where  under  life's  darkened  windows,  hung  with 
crape,  this  ceaseless  beat  of  my  sad  sentinel  heart.  You 
tell  me  not  to  think,  to  act,  to  enjoy.  0,  Douglass,  you 
know  not  my  wretchedness.  There  is  a  shore  for  the  moor 
ing  of  the  lost  voyager's  bark,  a  lull  for  the  direst  tempest, 
a  waning  for  the  silver  moon  :  the  raging  billow  sleeps  at 
last.  At  the  coming  of  the  morning  the  bannered  clouds 
fold  their  white  tents,  but  thought  never  folds  her  wings — 
the  spirit's  bark  is  never  moored.  Thought's  billowy  surges 
rise  higher  as  they  roll  on,  but  never  blend  with  the  ocean 
of  oblivion.  Her  strange  electric  light  pales  not  with  de 
clining  suns,  or  waning  moons,  her  throbbings  lull  not  with 
lulling  tempests.  I  am  weary  of  life.  My  poor  thought  is 
a  weather-beaten  traveller  over  the  stormy  past,  keeping  at 
midnight  her  sleepless  guard  like  a  vigil  of  arms,  always 
walking  among  tombs  and  shadows,  and  then  to  sleep  only 
to  awake  and  find  the  next  morning  the  same  old  haunting 
trouble  rising  and  going  about  with  you.  You  who  have 
never  had  a  trouble,  to  walk  and  talk  and  sleep  and  dream 


NEPENTHE.  157 

with  yon,  know  not  how  Trouble's  to-day  goes  hand  in  hand 
with  its  elder  brother  of  yesterday,  walking  restlessly  the 
lonely  hall  of  the  soul,  and  when  you  open  your  eyes  in  the 
morning,  and  the  bright  sunshine  steals  in,  there  is  the 
'  raven  '  trouble  croaking  at  your  chamber  door,  '  croaking 
evermore.'  My  soul  is  like  a  haunted  house.  Such  noises 
and  shrieks  and  groans  and  half-hushed  voices  and  raps  and 
wails,  startle  me  at  night  and  torment  by  day.  My  life  is  a 
burnt-over  prairie — the  flowers  are  gone." 

Mr.  Selwyn  walked  back  and  forth  gloomily. 

"  You  need  change  of  scene,''  said  Mr.  Douglass ;  "  go 
and  spend  a  few  days  with  me  at  Niagara." 

"  I  have  visited  Niagara,"  said  Mr.  Selwyn.  "  If  there's 
a  pall  within,  even  beautiful  nature  will  seem  only  a  sha 
dowy  procession  of  slow,  mournful  pall-bearers  to  the 
shrouded  heart.  My  kneeling  soul  has  said  its  mournful 
litany  under  the  brow  of  table  rock,  beneath  earth's  great 
baptismal  font,  sprinkled  with  ascending  spray,  where  is 
shadowed  forth  in  rising  clouds,  the  glory  of  the  Father, 
Son  and  Spirit.  Long  shut  up  within  brick  walls,  catching 
but  glimpses  and  patches  of  the  blue  sky,  it  is  like  walking 
with  God  in  the  cool  of  the  day,  to  stand  so  near  the  presence 
chamber  of  the  invisible  One,  and  touch  the  shadowy  robes 
of  the  great  High  Priest,  bordered  with  light  from  yonder 
gates  of  pearl,  while  ascends  from  liquid  voices  the  grandest 
voluntary  of  ages,  where  God's  great  thoughts  are  ever  is 
suing  from  crystal  sheets,  with  radiant  emerald  bound." 

"  How  our  little  griefs,"  said  Douglass,  "  little  cares,  lit 
tle  losses,  shrink  out  of  sight  before  these  great  waters, 
which  have  roared  on  so  patiently  and  sublimely  for  weary 
years,  while  the  tide  of  many  a  life-stream  has  gone  out  and 
passed  away." 

"  The  roar  of  these  great  waters,"  said  Selwyn,  "  never  dies 
away  from  my  spirit.  Those  solemn  voices  echo  ever  with 
the  voices  of  the  night.  Louder  and  deeper  than  the  moan 
ing  of  the  great  waterfall,  is  the  wail  of  my  grief  at  mid 
night,  sobbing  out  its  voluntary,  as  it  ever  accumulates  from 
the  great  lakes  of  sorrow,  rushing  on  through  the  sea  of 
trouble,  dashing  its  cold  spray  of  tears  along  the  silent  shore 
of  memory,  bearing  me  on  to  the  eddying  whirlpool  of  re 
gret.  0,"  said  he  bitterly,  "  if  there  were  only  some  Ne- 


158  NEPENTHE. 

penthe  I  could  press  to  my  lips,  and  forget  the  painful  past ! 
If  I  could  turn  over  the  old  dark  page,  and  begin  a  new 
life  that  would  not  be  so  haunted  with  echoes  and  shadows 
and  ghosts  !" 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE     CONVENIENT     CRACK DR.    BACIIUNE's     WISDOM ORTHO 
DOXY WHITE    CRAVATS PURITANS. 

"  Good  are  the  Ethics,  I  wis  ;  good  absolute— not  for  me.  though  ; 
Wood  too  Logic,  of  course ;  in  itself — but  not  in  fine  weather ; 
Sleep,  weary  ghosts,  be  at  peace,  and  abide  in  your  lexicon-limbo; 
Sleep,  as  in  lava  for  ages  your  Herculanean  kindred, 
uEscnylus,  Sophocles,  Homer,  Herodotus,  Pindar,  and  Plato  ; 
(jive  to  historical  subjects  a  free  poetical  treatment, 
Leaving  vocabular  ghosts  undisturbed  in  their  lexicon-limbo." 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLODGH. 

"And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting, 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door. 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon  that  is  dreaming. 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming,  throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor, 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor, 
Shall  be  lifted  nevermore." 

EDGAR  ALLEN  POE. 

"  Thus  much  would  I  conceal,  that  none  should  know 
"What  secret  cause  I  have  for  silent  woe." 

MICHAEL  AXGELO. 

"  I  WONDER  what  is  the  matter  with  that  man,"  said  Mrs. 
!Edwards,  as  Mr.  Selwyn  went  up  to  his  room  from  break 
fast  ;  (Mrs.  Edwards  kept  a  boarding-house  ;  she  had  about 
twenty  gentleman  boarders.)  "  He  pays  promptly,  has  a 
valuable  library,  rare  pictures,  costly  wardrobe,  the  best 
room  in  the  house  ;  he  must  be  wealthy.  I  keep  his  room 
scrupulously  clean,  his  linen  as  white  and  polished  as 
sugar,  salt,  spermacetti  and  gum  arabic  can  make  it.  I  try 
to  have  him  feel  at  home  ;  I  don't  understand  the  man  ;  I  set 
before  him  omelets  done  to  a  charm,  cream  biscuit,  delicious 
steak,  irresistible  coffee,  plum  pudding,  and  everything  that 
bachelors  dote  on.  I  don't  believe  he'd  notice  it  if  I  put  salt 
in  his  tea,  instead  of  sugar — it  does  beat  all !  This  morn 
ing  I  had  such  fresh  corn  bread,  hot  griddle  cakes,  warm 
biscuit,  right  before  him  when  he  came  down  late,  and  he 


NEPENTHE.  159 

only  ate  a  few  mouthfuls  of  corn  bread,  tasted  his  coffee,  and 
left  the  table,  neglecting  all  my  delicacies.  He  is  the  only 
man  I  ever  saw  who  didn't  care  what  he  had  to  eat.  He 
treats  my  steak  as  if  it  were  chips.  He  seems  to  like  cold 
griddle  cakes  as  well  as  warm,  hard  eggs  as  well  as  soft.  I 
can't  tempt  him  with  muffins,  maccaronies,  ice  creams  or  ices. 
They  are  all  the  same  to  him  ;  he  never  eats  jellies  or  pre 
serves.  I  wonder  what  the  man  does  like.  I  opened  a  jar  of 
preserved  strawberries  the  other  evening,  just  for  his  tea, 
and  he  never  tasted  them  ;  that  Mr.  Hogg  is  a  real  hog,  fcr 
he  ate  the  whole  of  them.  I  try  to  get  in  conversation  with 
him.  I  start  every  subject,  and  I  am  sure  he  has  no  busi 
ness  to  worry  him.  He  comes  and  goes  when  he  likes. 
Ann  says  some  mornings  his  bed  isn't  even  tumbled  ;  she 
believes  he  sits  up  all  night,  lie  has  a  dignified  way,  as  if 
accustomed  to  respect.  I  believe  he'd  be  happier  if  he  had 
a  wife  ;  why  don't  he  marry  ?  There  are  plenty  of  nice 
ladies  to  be  had.  The  ladies  were  all  in  the  parlor  the  other 
evening — we  had  such  fine  music,  graceful  dancing  and 
nice  charades  ;  all  my  other  guests  were  in  the  parlor." 
(Mrs.  Edwards  always  call  her  boarders  guests.)  "  I  did 
all  I  could  to  get  him  in,  but  he  declined,  perhaps  he's  not 
fond  of  gaiety — would  prefer  a  quiet  domestic  life — but  oh, 
how  my  tooth  does  ache  !  I  really  believe  I  will  have  to 
have  it  out  yet.  But  that  reminds  me  my  room  is  so  damp 
since  the  walls  were  fixed  I  will  have  to  take  the  room  next 
to  Mr.  Selwyn  to-night.  It  is  the  only  unoccupied  room  in 
the  house." 

Mrs.  Edwards'  tooth  kept  her  awake  for  hours  that  night, 
and  as  she  tossed  about  in  her  bed,  she  could  hear  Mr. 
Selwyn  pacing  back  and  forth  in  his  room  ;  he  had  evidently 
not  retired.  She  got  up  and  went  into  the  wardrobe  to 
hunt  for  some  cotton  on  which  to  put  a  little  aconite  in  the 
tooth  where  the  nerve  was  exposed.  There  was  a  closet 
also  in  Mr.  Selwyn's  room  adjoining  hers,  a  slight  crack  or 
a  little  hole  in  the  wardrobe  would  reveal  to  any  eye  close 
to  it,  any  object  in  the  adjoining  room  that  chanced  to  be  in 
that  line  of  vision.  She  was  rummaging  quite  near  the 
crack  to  get  the  cotton,  when  a  heavy  sigh  arrested  her 
attention,  and  before  she  knew  it  she  found  her  eye  quite 
near  the  crack.  She  could  see  on  Mr.  Sehvyn's  round  table 


160  NEPENTHE. 

some  old  yellow-looking  letters,  and  open  on  the  floor  a  small 
trunk. 

If  one  begins  to  do  a  thing  not  quite  right,  if  there  is  any 
mystery  in  the  matter,  there  is  a  fascination  in  keeping  the 
eye  fixed  upon  the  spot,  until  tne  mystery  is  solved.  Noth 
ing  but  the  fear  of  exposure  could  prevent  her  now  from 
seeing  all  she  could  through  that  crack. 

He  took  from  his  trunk  a  little  box  and  sat  down  by  the 
centre  table  (Mrs.  Edwards  always  gave  her  nice  bachelor 
boarders  a  centre  table,)  took  from  the  box  a  miniature  and 
laid  it  upon  the  table.  He  placed  beside  it  another  minia 
ture,  looking  newer  and  the  setting  brighter.  He  looked  at 
both  of  them,  as  if  he  were  reading  a  book,  as  Mrs.  Edwards 
said,  and  then  he  sat  still  so  long,  leaning  forward  on  tha 
table  ;  his  back  was  turned  to  her,  she  thought  be  had  fallen 
asleep,  the  gas  flickered,  the  hands  of  the  little  clock  moved 
on  to  twelve,  and  yet  he  stirred  not;  he  must  be  asleep. 
But  I'll  catch  my  death  of  cold  in  my  tooth  standing  here  so 
long,"  thought  she.  Just  then  there  was  a  deep  sob,  a 
heavy  sob.  Yes,  he  actually  sobbed.  Mrs.  Edwards  had 
a  woman's  heart ;  she  half  reproached  herself  for  looking 
through  that  convenient  crack.  This  unexpected  demon 
stration  of  grief  checked  for  that  time  her  curiosity. 

She  stepped  softly  down  off  her  chair,  for  she  had  been 
standing  on  a  chair,  and  something  fell  off  of  one  of  the 
shelves.  Just  as  sure  as  we  wish  to  be  very  quiet  and 
secret  about  any  thiug  how  often  something  will  happen  to 
cause  us  to  make  a  great  noise.  Mrs.  Edwards  was  pro 
voked  that  she  should  have  made  such  a  noise  when  she  wished 
to  keep  so  remarkably  still.  She  stooped  to  pick  it  up.  It 
was  an  old  Bible.  It  lay  open  on  the  floor.  By  some 
sudden  impulse  she  went  to  the  light  and  looked  on  the  page 
where  she  had  found  it  open,  and  the  first  verse  that  met  her 
eye  was  this,  in  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  Proverbs  :  "  The 
heart  knoweth  his  own  bitterness  :  and  a  stranger  doth  not 
intermeddle  with  his  joy." 

She  went  softly  back  to  bed,  lying  awake  a  long  time, 
catching  at  intervals,  snatches  of  disturbed  sleep,  dreaming 
that  her  room  was  full  of  old  letters  and  miniatures,  and  she 
could  hear  all  through  her  dreams — sob  after  sob — but  after 
that  she  was  kinder  than  ever  to  her  new  boarder. 

Mrs.  Edwards  had  such  a  passion  for  piecing  bed -quilts, 


NEPENTHE.  161 

such  lots  of  red,  green,  and  blue  remnants  she  bought  up, 
to  make  an  infinite  series  of  tulips,  rising  suns  and  elaborate 
roses. 

Tliis  was  her  first  tulip  quilt  and  she  was  congratulating 
herself  upon  its  rapid  consummation.  That  afternoon,  as  she 
sat  rocking  in  her  chair  fitting  her  tulips,  she  said  in  an 
undertone  to  herself,  "  Well,  everybody  has  trouble,  but 
things  fit  together  right  after  all,  just  like  my  tulips." 

"  Yes,"  thought  Kate  Howard,  as  she  caught  this  part  of 
Mrs.  Edwards'  soliloquy,  as  she  passed  through  the  hall, 
"  Things  fit  together  like  her  tulips  !  very  true,  very  true  ! 
many  events  fit  together,  just  as  her  tulips — stuck  on, 
nobody'd  think  they  even  grew  together — those  leaves  and 
tulips.  So  it  is  in  life,  the  right  leaves  and  flowers  seldom 
get  together  in  one  heart." 

Feelings  are  like  flowers  ;  they  ought  never  to  be  cut,  and 
measured,  and  laid  down — they  ought  to  g/ow.  Just  plant 
a  little  bud  of  hope  in  the  heart,  and  there'll  soon  be  laid 
all  around  it  some  dark,  ugly  leaves  of  regret.  The  heart 
is  nothing  but  patchwork  after  all,  odds  and  ends,  new  and 
old,  light  and  dark  all  together,  all  made  of  bright  remnants 
left  of  joys  and  loves,  paid  for  with  heavy  cost.  I  hate  this 
endless  patchwork — patching  old  loves  with  new  friendships. 
There's  too  much  light  and  dark  stuck  together,  the  poor 
patched  heart'll  never  wear  well  long.  We  try  to  join  the 
rent  seams  of  feeling,  and  to  make  them  last  we  sew  them 
over  and  over  with  the  threads  of  habit,  until  the  heart  is 
full  of  hard,  rough  ridges.  Give  me  one  good  comfortable 
feeling  to  spread  over  my  heart,  to  tuck  it  in  warm — it  is 
the  best  kind  of  counterpane  I  know  of.  It  is  better  than  a 
whole  basket  of  calico  tulips,  waiting  for  the  leaves  to  be 
stuck  on.  When  I  sleep  under  a  bed  covered  with  such 
tulips,  I  always  dream  of  country  fairs." 

Had  Dr.  Bachune  heard  these  ladies  talking,  he  would 
have  put  on  his  most  classic  face,  and  exclaimed  with  em 
phasis  "  Nil  disputandum  de  gustibus." 

Mrs.  Edwards  laid  her  tulips  together,  all  arranged  nicely, 
as  they  were  going  to  be  sewed,  and  looking  at  them  all  ad 
miringly,  she  exclaimed,  "  I  can  finish  it  all  on  Wednesday, 
and  it  shall  go  on  Mr.  Selwyn's  bed." 

Poor  Mrs.  Edwards  little  knew  how  much  Mr.  Selwyn 
disliked  these  Mosaic  tulips  and  aggravated  roses,  staring  at 


162  NEPENTHE. 

him  when  he  awoke  in  the  morning,  always  in  their  full  stiff 
bloom.  She  had  two  inevitable  baskets,  as  Kate  Howard 
called  them.  One  had  an  oval  top  and  the  other  a  round 
one — one  for  embroidered  bands  and  the  other  for  patches. 
She  had  these  two  resources  for  her  single  solitude.  It  was 
astonishing  how  many  bands  she  had  embroidered  in  all  sorts 
of  those  varied  patterns,  leaves  and  flowers  with  which  the 
initiated  are  so  familiar. 

She  lays  them  all  away,  and  begins  to  dress  for  dinner. 
She  brushes  carefully  her  glossy  hair,  puts  on  the  pink  and 
black  coiffure  and  her  new  black  silk  dress.  She  knew  well, 
like  most  of  the  rest  of  the  world  of  ladies,  she  looked  bost 
in  black  silk.  Her  eyes  were  no  soft  sentimental  blue,  but 
a  practical  hazel  blue.  She  was  neat,  prudent,  patient,  ge 
nial,  and  when  well  dressed,  in  the  soft  light  of  her  pleasant 
parlor,  she  looked  young  still,  with  that  peachy  glow  upon 
her  cheek. 

She  was  quite  willing  to  please  her  new  boarder.  She 
was  tired  of  being  always  so  self-reliant,  always  at  the  head. 
She  had  long  wished  for  a  little  home  of  her  own.  She 
would  have  been  glad  to  have  seen  her  whole  regiment  of 
boarders,  save  this  one,  moving  out  at  the  door,  and  her 
self  domesticated  in  some  cottage  of  her  own,  going  and  com 
ing  when  she  chose,  with  no  big  butcher's  and  grocer's  bills 
to  trouble  her,  with  no  uppish  Bridgets  and  saucy  Marga 
rets,  and  lazy  Kates  to  worry  and  fret  her,  and  then  too,  she 
could  make  such  beautiful  quilts,  she  would  have  so  much 
leisure,  and  she  could  work  bands  enough  to  trim  up  every 
thing  so  showily.  But,  it  would  not  do  for  her  to  sit  still 
and  build  air  castles,  and  this  evening  she  took  more  pains 
than  usual  with  her  dress,  in  spite  of  her  toothache.  She 
was  just  the  woman  in  case  of  an  emergency,  to  know  what 
was  to  be  done,  and  where  and  when  and  how  to  do  it. 

A  gentleman  called  the  next  morning  for  Mr.  Selwyn. 
He  hurried  off  in  great  haste,  leaving  his  things  around  the 
room.  Mrs.  Edwards  took  her  bnnch  of  keys — she  had  one 
she  thought  would  just  fit  his  door.  She  tried  them  all,  and 
at  last  one  of  them  unlocked  it,  and  she  slipped  in — and 
there  were  the  two  miniatures  on  the  table.  She  examined 
both.  One  seemed  about  seventeen.  It  looked  as  if  it  were 
taken  long  ago,  and  evidently  just  put  in  its  bright  fresh 
modern  frame. 


NEPENTHE.  163 

"  Who  were  these  ?"  thought  she.  "  Not  two  wives,  cer 
tainly.  Oh !  two  sisters,  may  be — yes,  two  sisters."  Both 
were  beautiful,  and  she  began  to  see  a  striking  resemblance 
in  the  two  faces,  as  she  held  one  in  her  hand  by  the  window, 
looking  at  it,  when  she  heard  some  one  coming  up  stairs. 
It  was  his  step — he  was  coming  back.  She  laid  the  minia 
ture  on  the  table,  and  hurried  into  the  closet,  crouching 
down  behind  a  large  trunk  in  the  corner.  He  was  hunting 
for  something.  He  took  hold  of  the  knob  of  the  closet  door, 
as  if  to  open  it.  How  she  trembled  !  She  moved  still  far 
ther  back  into  the  corner,  and  pressed  open  a  large  paper  of 
Scotch  snuff  that  was  lying  on  the  floor. 

"  There— I  did  get  almost  caught  that  time,''  thought  she, 
as  Mr.  Selwyn  went  down  stairs  again,  after  putting  up  his 
miniatures  and  locking  the  box.  As  his  footsteps  died  away 
on  the  stairs,  a  succession  of  suppressed  sneezes  sounded 
through  the  hall,  as  Mrs.  Edwards  issued  from  her  retreat. 

One  bureau  drawer  was  left  unlocked,  which  she  rum 
maged.  Some  very  good  people  will  rummage,  and  they 
can't  seem  to  help  it — they've  such  inquiring  minds.  She 
found  a  package  of  sermons,  and  a  part  of  an  old  note.  She 
read  the  note  : 

"  We  all  regret  very  much  you  have  given  up  the  minis 
try — you  could  do  so  much  good.  Your  sermon  on  self- 
denial  made  a  deep  impression  on  my  mind,  and  it  was  bene 
ficial  to  many  others.  It  so  impressed  Dr.  Wendon  that  it 
really  was  the  means  of  his  taking  a  young  and  destitute 
orphan  girl  into  his  family,  and  keeping  her  for  years  and 
educating  her.  Won't  you  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  have  it 
for  a  few  days,  to  read  to  Dr.  Wendon,  who  is  now  blind 
and  unfortunate." 

"  I  wonder  if  this  note  really  was  directed  to  Mr.  Scl- 
wyn  ?'  thought  Mrs.  Edwards  ;  "  the  direction  and  begin 
ning  are  torn,  so  I  can't  find  out.  I  heard  a  self-denial 
sermon  some  years  ago,  which  would  have  made  a  Christian 
of  me  if  I  hadn't  kept  a  boarding-house.  I  had  no  time  then 
to  turn  my  mind  to  penitence  and  conversion.  Who  was 
that  minister  ?  They  called  him  Professor  Henry,  but  that 
name  wasn't  his  last  name.  There  were  two  professors  in 
the  seminary  of  the  same  name — so  they  always  went  by 
their  Christian  names.  The  one  they  called  Professor 
Henry  and  the  other  Professor  John." 


164  NEPENTHE. 

Mrs.  Edwards  takes  out  a  sermon  from  the  package,  lays 
it  beside  a  little  scrap  of  paper  on  the  table,  written  by  Mr. 
Selwyn,  a  scrap  of  quotation  from  some  poet.  She  examined 
both  carefully,  and  she  goes  and  gets  one  of  her  bills  he  had 
signed.  She  knew  the  curl  of  the  d's  -and  the  twirl  of 
the  m's  in  the  name  on  the  bill.  He  made  such  queer-look 
ing  d's  she'd  know  them  anywhere — and  the  hand-writing 
of  the  sermon  was  the  same  as  the  little  quotation.  "  Yes, 
Mr.  Selwyn  was  a  minister — these  were  his  sermons. 
Wasn't  it  strange  !" 

She  comes  out,  shuts  and  locks  the  door,  goes  back  to  her 
room,  with  her  head  full  of  information — too  much  for  any 
one  woman  to  keep  alone. 

"  Wasn't  it  strange  !"  she  said,  as  she  sat  in  the  dining- 
room,  thinking  aloud.  "  But  here  comes  Miss  Charity 
Gouge.  I'm  afraid  she'll  ask  for  the  pattern  of  my  quilt 
and  I  don't  want  another  just  like  it  anywhere,"  said  she, 
quickly  tucking  her  tulips  in  the  basket  under  the  table. 

"  I  had  an  application  for  a  new  boarder  this  morning, 
Miss  Gouge,"  said  she,  "  a  genteel-looking  young  lady.  She 
looked  at  the  fourth  story  back  room,  with  sloping  windows, 
the  one  for  twelve  shillings  a  week.  She  is  to  furnish  her 
own  fuel,  light,  food — sit  in  the  parlor  but  little,  never  take 
her  work  there.  She  says  her  name  is  Stuart,  Nepenthe 
Stuart.  She  may  come,  yet  she  said  nothing  of  reference — 
but  I  can  manage  that.  I  can  get  along  well  enough  with 
women,  they  usually  pay.  But,  Charity,  I  must  tell  you 
about  Dr.  Bachune,  the  gentleman  we  all  admired  so  much. 
I  thought  I  would  never  mention"  his  name  again.  He  had 
the  best  room  in  the  house  at  eighteen  dollars  a  week  and 
all  the  extras  ;  his  boots  must  be  at  the  door  so  early,  wine 
always  on  the  table  by  him.  He  was  so  fastidious  and  deli 
cate  that  I  really  told  all  the  waiters  to  be  particularly  at 
tentive  to  him. 

"  He  looked  so  gentlemanly,  so  infinitely  above  all  pecu 
niary  considerations,  when  he  said  that  '  money  was  no  ob 
ject  if  the  room  suited.'  He  had  no  baggage — that  was 
'  coming  on  from  Philadelphia.'  I  have  found  since  that 
people  who  are  always  saying  that  money  is  of  no  conse 
quence,  have  very  little  of  it  in  their  pockets. 

"  I  put  his  bill  under  his  plate,  as  I  always  do  at  the  end 
of  the  week.  He  took  breakfast  the  next  morning,  was  there 


NEPENTHE.  165 

at  luncheon,  and  I  have  since  heard  nothing  more  from  him. 
He  weut  off  with  his  imaginary  baggage,  to  his  imaginary 
office,  paying  his  imaginary  bill.  I  really  never  was  quite 
so  taken  in,  he  was  so  gentlemanly,  and  I  never  got  a  cent. 
Yes,  he  was  a  real  gentleman  in  manners,  Kate  Howard  was 
saying  yesterday.  He  was  so  very  scientific  and  correct  in 
conversation,  it  was  amusing  to  see  how  easily  he  would  rec 
tify  the  slightest  error  in  statistics,  politics  or  physics.  Fid 
dlesticks!  I  get  out  of  all  manner  of  patience  when  I  think 
how  fastidious  and  delicate  was  his  taste,  and  what  a  fuss  I 
did  make  for  him.  He  used  to  say  that  he  only  ate  the 
griddle-cakes  as  a  vehicle  for  his  molasses.  Wasn't  that 
rather  highfaluten  ?  I  heard  him  ask  Mr.  Vole  one  day  if 
he  had  pursued  much  the  study  of  hermeneutics  ?  Mr.  Vole 
hesitated,  and  then  said,  '  Not  much.' 

"  Kate  Howard  said — (did  you  ever  see  a  Kate  that  wasn't 
up  to  every  thing  ?) — she  said,  she  saw  Mr.  Vole,  after  din 
ner,  slyly  looking  into  Webster's  Dictionary.  He  remarked 
that  he  wouldn't  '  be  caught  that  way  again.'  I  think  the 
doctor  said  something  about  mollusc  for  breakfast,  but  I 
won't  be  sure.  You  couldn't  mention  a  place,  but  he  could 
describe  it,  or  a  book,  but  he  had  read  it,  or  a  great  per 
sonage,  with  whom  he  had  not  been  familiar.  Kate  Howard 
said,  before  a  book  was  written  he  had  read  it.  Indeed  he 
told  Kate  that  she  had  the  face  of  Eugenie  and  the  form  of 
Victoria.  Of  course  he  has  seen  all  the  foreign  dignitaries. 
His  coat  was  buttoned  up  to  the  chin — a  blue  coat — and 
Kate  says  she  thought  he  hadn't  but  one  collar — he  wore  it 
standing  up  the  first  three  days,  and  turned  down  the  next 
four.  But  you  know,  Miss  Charity,  that  thinking  over  vex 
atious  things  only  makes  them  worse.  I  expect  to  hear  his 
name  as  long  as  the  house  stands.  Mr.  Vole  and  two  or 
three  others  will  keep  ringing  changes  on  the  doctor's  name. 
Only  this  morning,  Mr.  Vole  says,  '  Miss  Kate,  you  look 
lonesome  at  your  end  of  the  table,  without  Doctor  Bachune.' 
I  suppose  the  man  is  boarding  around  now,  waiting  for  his 
baggage.  I  don't  like  to  lose  money,  but  the  worst  of  it  is, 
I  don't  like  to  be  made  a  fool  of.  He  used  to  sit  up  so 
stately,  and  bow  so  politely,  and  smile  so  blandly,  and  I  had 
him  waited  on  so  assiduously." 

"  Who's  that  coming  in  the  door  ?"  asked  Miss  Charity. 
"  That  is  Mr.  Selwyn,  the  best  guest  I  ever  had.    He 


166  NEPENTHE. 

seems  confined  to  no  regular  business.  He  is  good  pay,  and 
never  grumbles.  No  ink  spots  on  his  table  spread,  or  boot 
marks  on  his  washstand  and  bedstead,  or  spot  on  his  carpet. 
It  is  a  comfort  to  have  such  guests.  If  you  want  to  be  a 
toad  under  a  harrow,  keep  a  boarding-house. 

"  You  should  have  heard  Dr.  Bachune  talk  about  jesthet- 
ically,  esoterically,  and  exeterically,  and  pseudo-dipteral 
architecture,  and  thaumaturgia.  We  had  some  heavy  grid 
dle  cakes  on  the  table  one  morning,  and  Dr.  Bachune  re 
marked  that  '  their  specific  gravity  was  too  great  for  their 
size  ;  there  was  a  too  great  condensation  of  the  cellular  tis 
sue.'  Mr.  Vole  always  pretended  he  did  not  know  anything 
when  talking  with  the  doctor,  and  asked  him  all  sorts  of 
questions. 

"  I  heard  Mr.  Vole  say  one  day  that  the  doctor  would 
amuse  himself  so  often  with  the  careful  analysis  and  diagno 
sis  of  the  contents  of  the  tea-pot,  laid  out  as  a  sort  of  hortus 
siccus  on  his  plate.  '  This  leaf,  now/  he  would  say,  '  is 
fuschia.  Observe  the  serrated  edges.  That's  no  tea-leaf — 
positively  poisonous.  This  now  again  is  privet — yes,  you 
may  know  by  the  divisions,  panicles,  that's  no  tea-leaf.'  I 
don't  believe  that  all  this  talk  was  original  with  him,  he  pro 
bably  got  it  out  of  some  magazine.  But  he  looked  the 
wisest  when  he  talked  about  the  Bible.  He  said  that  was 
'  an  old  exploded  book.'  He  said  that  his  creed  was  '  a  creed 
of  no  creed.'  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  creed  that  is  ?  That 
'  every  therefore  must  have  a  wherefore.'  Of  course  it  must. 
Who  don't  know  that  ?  He  got  that  out  of  '  Pure  Reason,' 
somebody  said.  I  am  sure  his  reason  isn't  very  pure.  I 
wonder  if  he  got  that  about  the  Bible's  being  exploded  out 
of  Pure  Reason  too.  Mercy  on  us!  what  are  we  coming  to  ? 
I  wouldn't  give  one  leaf  of  my  grandmother's  Bible  for  all 
the  new-fangled  ideas  in  his  stuffed  head.  One  would  think, 
to  hear  men  talk  at  my  table  about  the  Bible,  that  it  was  a 
mighty  queer  book.  They  get  all  kind  of  things  out  of  it. 
Every  queer  notion  they  set  up,  they  pretend  to  prove  from 
the  Bible.  I  am  tired  of  this  cant  about  orthodoxy.  One 
would  think,  if  they  didn't  know  what  the  word  meant,  that 
orthodoxy  was  the  name  of  some  terrible  villain,  that  ought 
to  be  hanged,  drawn  and  quartered,  for  some  great  crimes, 
committed  with,  as  the  lawyers  say,  malice  aforethought. 

"  We  used  to  think,  when  I  was  a  child,  it  was  highly  re- 


NEPENTHE.  '  167 

spectable  to  belong  to  some  orthodox  church,   but  now  one 
would  think  it  was  disgraceful  to  be  in  such   regular   stand 
ing.     What  a  bugaboo  they  do  make  about  nothing.     Even 
some  young  preachers   that  want   to  be    popular,    sprinkle 
their  striking  sermons  with  tirades   and   invectives    against 
this  orthodoxy  as  if  the  poor  thing  were  to  blame  for  all  the 
sins  and  mistakes  of  the  whole  Christian  world.     Time   will, 
come,  if  they  say  much  more  about  it,  when  the  subject  will 
be  tiresome  and  common  and  get  old-fashioned,  and   then   I 
hope  they'll  let  it  alone.     There  is  such  a  rage  for  startling 
things.     A  man  will  say  low,  common,  coarse   things   about 
onions  and  rat-holes  just  for  effect,  to  excite  a  laugh.     It  is 
my  humble  opinion  that  one  coarse  idea  or  a  single  low   im 
age  in  a  sermon,  will  draw  the  mind  off  from  fifty   beautiful 
or  a  hundred  serious  thoughts.     We  laugh  at  the  most  fool 
ish  things,  or  the  mere  mention  of  them  in  the  pulpit ;  things 
we  wouldn't  think  of  laughing  at  if   said   in   the    street   or 
house  ;  they  are  not  really  so  witty  ;  we  only  laugh  because 
they  are  so  out  of  place  and  grotesque   in   the   pulpit.     We 
laugh,  and  we   can't  help  it,   to   see   a  round-faced,    rosy- 
cheeked  three  year  oldster   walk   in  with   his    father's    hat, 
spectacles  and  great  coat  on.     The  inclination  to  laugh  is  ir 
resistible,  yet  there's   nothing   funny    in    the    hat,    nothing 
amusing  in  the  coat,  nor  anything  comical  in  the  boy,  but  all 
together  are  irresistibly   laughable.     So  in  the   pulpit,   the 
place  for  dignified  manner,  solemn  and  elevated  themes,  the 
great  contrast  between  the  place  and  anything  trifling,  gro 
tesque,  or  common,  may  excite  mirth.     The  best  of  us  laugh 
to  see  a  '  harmless,  necessary  cat,'  or  a  quiet,  respectable 
mouse  move  along  through  the  church  aisles.     I  saw  an  old 
sexton  once  take  a  dog  up  and  carry  it  out  of  church  in  his 
arms.     The  effect  was  very  ludicrous.     But  I  wonder   why 
they  do  make  such  a  hue  and  cry  now  about  white  cravats. 
I  don't  see  how  those  white  cravats  can  hurt  any  body.     All 
the  objection  I  have  to  them  is,  they  are  so  much  trouble  to 
do  up.     I  think  they  are  certainly  becoming.     If  a  butcher 
can  wear  his  apron,  a  fireman  his  hat,  a  student  bis   badge, 
if  a  white  cravat  is  worn  at  court  in  full  dress,  why  can't  a 
minister  wear  one  in  the  pulpit  1     His   office  is   certainly   a 
dignified  one,  if  the  man  is  what  he  ought  to  be — and  then, 
what  fun  they  do  make  of  those  poor  old  puritans.     What  if 
they  were  a  little  stiff  and  awkward  !     Wo  make  fun  of  their 


168  NEPENTHE. 

old  coats  and  hats,  their  stiff  ways  and  ridiculous  notioni, 
their  rush  candles.  We,  enjoying  the  fruits  of  their  sacri 
fices,  sit  by  our  blazing  gas  lights  and  make  fun  of  their  old 
candles.  With  their  toil-worn  hands  they  wrought  out  the 
garments  of  our  independence,  and  made  the  cradle  of  lib 
erty  for  us  to  rock  so  lazily  in,  and  they  did  it  all  well,  too,  by 
the  feeble  light  of  their  despised  candles.  If  some  of  these 
good  old  puritans  could  stand  by  my  table  now,  without  be 
ing  seen,  and  hear  all  this  twaddle  about  the  Bible,  wouldn't 
they  cry  out  chaff !  chaff?  Common  sense  has  exploded! 
What  a  brainless  age  this  is  !  There's  only  a  weak  drop  of 
truth  in  this  great  ocean  of  nonsense  !  I  believe  the  whole 
Bible  is  inspired  from  Genesis  to  Revelations.  The  moment 
you  begin  to  allow  that  one  little  part  of  the  Bible  is  not  in 
spired,  you  drop  one  stitch  in  your  faith.  'Tis  like  my 
knitting  ;  just  drop  one  stitch  in  this  inspiration,  and  the 
whole  faith  begins  to  unravel.  All  these  smart  progress 
people  begin  to  set  up  new  foundations  for  themselves,  and 
they  get  ever  so  many  new  stitches  out  of  this  unravelled 
Bible.  Some  are  dropping  stitches  out  of  the  Bible  all  the 
time.  They've  ravelled  it  all  out,  and  in  making  it  over 
they  put  such  a  new  lace  on  it,  ripping  and  turning  and 
stretching  it  so,  no  one  would  know  it.  They  make  it  all 
over  like  a  coat,  till  it  suits  every  body's  style  of  thinking. 
Dr.  Bachuue  says  John  never  wrote  the  book  of  John.  I 
wonder  by  what  telegraph  he  got  that  news.  Did  he  get 
that  out  of  his  pure  reason,  too  ?  But  Kate  Howard  said  it 
wasn't  his  pure  reason  ;  it  was  Kant's.  We  have  so  much 
of  mixed  up  reason,  I  am  glad  if  some  body  has  come  out 
with  some  pure  reason.  '  Kant's  Pure  Reason,' — I'd  like  to 
read  that  book.  Kate  Howard  used  to  make  the  doctor  be 
lieve  she  did  not  know  much,  just  to  have  him  enlighten 
her.  One  day  she  asked  him  if  all  the  beautiful  young  la 
dies  in  old  times  were  named  Chloe.  He  asked  her  why. 
She  said  all  the  love  sonnets  and  poetical  eulogies  written 
by  poets  to  women  she  had  seen  in  the  old  English  readers 
and  cyclopedias  were  addressed  to  Chloe.  She  made  him 
think  she  believed  all  the  Shetland  wool  with  which  she 
crochets  her  mats,  was  obtained  from  the  Shetland  pony. 
'  Ah,  indeed,'  said  he,  '  that  must  be  a  woolly  horse.'  Then 
Dr.  Bachune  says  so  much  about  Locke  on  the  Understand 
ing.  I  never  liked  that  Locke  for  one  thing  ha  said,  he  must 


NEPENTHE.  169 

have  locked  up  his  understanding  when  he  wrote  that  '  cry. 
ing  shouldn't  be  tolerated  among  children.' 

"  But  didn't  Mr.  Selwyn  take  Dr.  Bachune  up  nicely  ? 
He  looked  like  a  minister.  Dr.  Bachune  never  said  a  word 
more  about  inspiration.  How  beautifully  Mr.  Selwyn  talked 
about  those  exceeding  great  and  precious  promises.  I  did 
really  like  that  man  ;  he  came  out  so  boldly.  The  doctor 
blushed  up  to  his  hair,  and  Mr.  Vole  looked  so  full,  I  ex 
pected  every  minute  he  would  burst  out  laughing.  He  says 
it  was  so  pat — that  is  his  word — if  he  likes  any  thing  it  is 
pat.  "Where  do  they  get  all  these  words  ?  But  there's  one 
thing  I  never  want  to  hear  again  ;  that  is  that  three  black 
crow  story.  Ignorant  as  I  am,  I  know  that  by  heart. 
These  crows  have  crowed  enough.  I  should  think  some 
committee  of  geniuses  might  scare  up  some  thing  that  would 
take  the  place  of  that  crow  story.  But  I  must  find  out 
about  those  miniatures.  I'll  get  talking  about  relations, 
etc.,  and  I'll  get  around  to  it.  I'll  ask  him  how  many  sis 
ters  he  has." 

Sure  enough,  at  the  tea  table  she  did  ask  him,  and  he 
dignifiedly  replied  :  "  I  have  no  sisters,  madam." 

Some  one,  I  have  forgotten  who,  told  me  once  that  Mrs. 
Edwards  was  seen  much  oftener  with  the  Bible  in  her  hand, 
after  she  found  out  that  Mr.  Selwyn  was  a  minister. 

Some  how  it  did  get  around  the  table  that  Mr.  Selwyn 
was  a  clergyman.  Mrs.  Edwards  couldn't  guess  how  it 
got  out.  One  night  she  was  alone  in  the  parlor  with  Kate 
Howard  talking  sociably,  and  after  exciting  Kate's  curiosity 
to  the  highest  pitch,  she  did  tell  her  in  "  the  strictest  confi 
dence  "  that  one  of  her  guests  was  a  clergyman. 

This  set  Kate  to  guessing,  and  very  soon  she  guessed  Mr. 
Selwyn,  because  he  was  the  only  one  at  the  table  who  hadn't 
at  some  time  criticised  clergymen  rather  sharply. 

But  first  the  secret  leaked  out,  then  it  was  out,  and  then 
it  spread  all  over.  Mrs.  Edwards  had  found  out  the  fact 
in  suoh  a  sly  way,  she  was  uneasy  lest  it  should  get  to  Mr. 
Selwyn's  ears,  and  he  suspect  that  she  was  a  prying,  inquis 
itive,  gossiping  woman. 

She  was  old  enough  to  have  known  long  ago  that  secrets 
are  like  books  and  umbrellas — no  one  will-  keep  them  quite 
as  carefully  as  ourselves  ;  that  by  some  kind  of  law,  secrets, 
like  magnetic  currents,  always  move  in  circles  ;  you  never 

8 


170  NEPENTHE. 

can  find  the  beginning  or  end  of  them — that  they  always 
spread  as  they  diverge  from  the  centre  of  information,  and 
the  circles  if  not  hyperbolas,  are  hyperfo/es. 

It  was  too  good  to  keep  all  alone,  so  Kate  Howard  only 
mentioned  it  to  Mr.  Vole,  and  he  promised  faithfully  he 
wouldn't  breathe  a  word  of  it ;  and  if  Mrs.  Edwards  had 
gone  round  the  circle  like  the  old  game  of  button,  button, 
who's  got  my  button  ? — secret,  secret,  who's  got  my  secret  ? 
— it  would  be  the  answer  in  the  play,  "  next  door  neighbor." 

There  was  no  use  in  being  provoked  with  Kate  Howard  ; 
she  had  the  best  intentions  and  always  looked  so  good- 
natured,  you  couldn't  be  angry  with  her  ;  she  knew  Mr.  Vole 
would  never  say  any  thing  about  it,  of  course  he  would  never 
speak  of  it,  she  had  as  much  confidence  in  him  as  she  had  iu 
herself. 

It  rained  one  afternoon.  Four  ladies  were  in  the  parlor 
chatting  and  crocheting,  all  except  Charity  Gouge,  who  was 
always  working  muslin  bands,  or  fixing  up  head-dresses  or 
discussing  the  morals  and  manners  of  the  age.  They  had 
been  whispering  some  time,  when  Miss  Charity  spoke  up. 
"  Why  don't  he  preach  if  he's  a  minister  ?  I  don't  like  to  see 
a  watchman  deserting  the  walls  of  Zion,"  said  she  in  her 
solemn  sentimental  drawl,  "  but  perhaps  he's  married  a  rich 
wife,  and  has  the  bronchitis,  and  can't  preach.  It  is  strange 
how  these  rich  wives  affect  clergymen's  throats.  I  believe 
they  that  wait  upon  the  Lord  shall  renew  their  strength," 
said  she  in  a  solemn  tone. 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  didn't  try  a  little  of  that  yourself," 
said  Miss  Kate  and  her  eyes  twinkled  mischievously.  "  You 
are  always  complaining,  it  might  renew  your  strength." 

Miss  Charity  was  always  quoting  scripture,  and  she  never 
got  it  quite  right  either.  She  often  spoke  of  that  beautiful 
verse  in  the  Bible  about  "  that  bourne  from  whence  no  trav 
eller  returns." 

"  Hush,"  said  Kate  Howard,  putting  her  finger  on  her  lip, 
"  there  comes  Mrs.  Edwards,  and  she  won't  hear  a  word 
against  Mr.  Selwyn,  she  thinks  he  is  perfection." 

"  I  haven't  said  any  thing  I'm  ashamed  of,  nothing  but  the 
truth,"  said  Miss  Charity  sitting  up  very  straight  and  look 
ing  very  dignified. 

_•'  Yes,"  said  Kate,  "  but  the  truth  isn't  to  be  spoken  out 
at  all  times,  we  needn't  tell  all  we  know." 


NEPENTHE.  171 

Mr.  Vole  often  said  it  was  too  bad  to  make  a  gouge  out 
of  charity,  he  was  always  saying  it  was  cold  as  charity,  when 
the  thermometer  was  near  zero,  no  matter  how  much  his 
prudent  mother  stepped  on  his  toes,  he  would  say  it  though 
Charity  sat  opposite  to  him  at  the  table  and  he  knew  her 
hearing  was  remarkably  acute. 

"  Charity  can  never  be  to  highly  prized  in  this  selfish 
world,"  he  would  say,  as  he  recommended  her  to  his  young 
gentleman  friends,  "  you  know  '  Charity  suffereth  long  and 
is  kind.'  " 


CHAPTER  XX. 
CARLEYN'S  TIGER  IN  A  TRAP. 

MR.  JAMES  VOLE  is  sitting  in  Mr.  Carleyn's  studio,  wait 
ing  for  Mr.  Carleyn  to  come  in.  He  is  humming  over  these 
lines — 

"  I  love  sweet  features  ;  I  will  own 

That  I  should  like  myself 
To  see  my  portrait  on  a  wall, 

Or  bust  upon  a  shelf ; 
But,  nature  sometimes  makes  one  up 

Of  such  sad  odds  and  ends, 
It  really  might  be  quite  as  well 
Hushed  up  among  one's  friends." 

Mr.  Vole  had  never  had  any  likeness  taken  of  himself — 
but  he  was  an  only  son  and  an  only  child,  so  his  mother  said 
she  must  have  a  portrait  of  James  :  something  might  hap 
pen,  he  was  always  running  into  danger,  he  might  break  his 
neck  yet,  she  must  have  a  portrait. 

So  to  gratify  her,  he  had  consented,  and  this  was  his  first 
sitting.  He  said  "  a  profile  cut  in  black"  would  suit  better 
his  style  efface. 

He  thought  it  would  prove  a  tedious  business,  but  Car 
leyn  had  a  way  of  making  the  time  pass  very  agreeably  to 
his  sitters,  and  they  were  soon  busily  talking,  and  Mr.  Vole 
almost  forgot  that  he  was  sitting  for  his  portrait. 

"  I  heard  Mr.  Trap  say  the  other  evening  at  the  Acade 
my  of  Design,  Mr.  Carleyn,"  said  Mr.  Vole,  "  that  he  took 
to  himself  some  of  the  credit  of  shaping  your  destiny  and 
fame  as  a  rising  young  man  and  artist." 


172  NEPENTHE. 

"  A  rising  young  man  means  a  great  deal  in  his  mouth," 
said  Carleyn,  sarcastically.  "  It  is  a  favorite  phrase  of  his. 
He  used  to  mean  by  it,  one  who  by  fraud,  pettifogging,  sly 
cunning,  secret  reaching  and  over-reaching,  gained  money, 
lands,  tenements  and  hereditaments  ;  one  who,  by  putting 
himself  and  others  through  a  course  of  cunning  and  deceit, 
climbed  up  at  last  to  society's  golden  roof,  and  counted 
there,  his  increasing  pile  of  shining  dollars. 

"  My  destiny,"  he  continued  with  no  little  feeling,  "would 
be  a  ragged,  shivering,  starving,  shadowy,  cruel  destiny  if 
he  had  shaped  it. 

"  The  word  shaped  should  never  be  abused  by  lips  like 
his — he  never  shaped  anything.  He  has  knocked  out  of 
shape  and  symmetry  every  thing  his  hard  hand  hath 
touched. 

"  My  angel  mother  taught  me  when  a  little  boy  never  to 
say  a  cross  word  when  a  kind  one  would  do,  and  when  an 
gry  to  count  a  hundred  before  I  spoke.  This  rule  I  tried 
to  keep. 

"  There  is  no  art  so  badly  learned,  so  miserably  prac 
tised,  as  that  of  finding  fault.  There  is  not  one  man  in  a 
thousand  who  does  it  wisely,  kindly  or  well — and  he  who  is 
full  of  faults  himself  is  sure  to  be  watching  and  improving 
chances  for  finding  fault  in  others.  He  anticipates  mistakes, 
and  scolds  at  a  wrong  before  it  is  done  :  he  is  always  on  the 
starboard  ?ide  of  life,  straining  his  eyes  to  watch  and  scold, 
and  scare  and  punish  the  least  floating  specks  of  wrong  that 
may  be  coming  towards  him,  and  to  crush  an  insult  before 
its  seed  is  planted  ;  he's  always  gathering  clouds  to  get  up 
a  storm,  when  really  the  sky  is  quite  comfortably  clear.  Mr. 
John  Trap  was  my  guardian.  I  went  from  my  mother's  kind 
care  and  consistent  gentle  influence,  to  John  Trap's  house. 
I  said  to  myself,  boy  as  I  was  and  ignorant  of  human  na 
ture,  Mr.  John  Trap  is  a  good  lawyer,  a  successful  practical 
man — so  he  must  have  good  judgment.  Mr.  Trap  is  an  edu 
cated  man  ;  of  course  he  is  a  gentleman — dignified,  con 
sistent,  just.  Mr.  Trap  has  a  fine  position  and  a  liberal  edu 
cation — he  is  therefore  a  man  of  character,  and  I,  as  a  boy, 
will  acquire  some  character  by  being  under  his  influence 
and  watching  his  example  ;  and  I  already  began  to  think  of 
him  as  a  type  of  manly  nobility  and  a  model  of  manly  aj- 
cellence.  Moreover  he  was  a  persoa  of  fine  external  ap- 


NEPENTHE.  173 

pearance,  I  had  often  -thought  as  I  had  seen  him  standing  in 
a  crowd. 

"  I  went  to  live  with  him.  He  was  at  first  pleasant,  then 
civil,  and  then  decent ;  at  last  the  natural  man  came  out, 
and  h£  acted  himself.  I  looked  at  him  with  wonder  and 
astonishment.  He  often  scared  rne  through  and  through. 
Sometimes  he  would  lavish  his  most  complimentary  epithets 
upon  me,  but  if  I  chanced  to  be  out  in  the  evening  three 
minutes  later  than  half  past  nine,  he  would  blow  me  all  the 
way  up  the  two  pair  of  stairs,  and  I  could  hear  his  voice  in 
low  thunder  dying  away  in  faint  echoes  after  I  had  closed 
and  locked  my  door. 

"  If  once  in  two  years  he  had  to  get  up  and  let  me  in,  for 
he  never  would  let  me  take  a  night  key — if  the  great  John 
Trap  were  really  thus  disturbed,  he  would  get  into  a  terri 
ble  rage  ;  he  couldn't  have  been  more  excited  if  his  wife 
had  been  shot,  his  child  stolen,  or  his  personal  property  car 
ried  off  by  burglars. 

"  I  was  scared  at  first,  but  at  last  I  learned  to  despise  the 
man  who  had  so  little  control  over  himself.  I  used  to  com 
fort  myself  with  the  thought  that  as  I  was  not  his  wife  or 
child,  my  life-lease  with  him  would  soon  expire. 

"  He  seemed  to  think  these  'little  peculiarities'  of  his  all 
right — only  a  part  of  his  dignity  and  greatness,  and  now  he 
really  boasts  of  shaping  my  destiny. 

"  I  think  he  has  exercised  an  influence  upon  my  life.  I 
learned  while  with  him  to  suspect,  to  mistrust.  Let  a  boy 
be  deceived  once,  and  he  will  soon  lose  some  of  his  faith  in 
human  nature.  His  overbearing  tyrannical  insolence  awoke 
feelings  in  me  which  I  knew  not  before  that  I  possessed. 
All  the  indignant  manhood  within  me  was  aroused.  I  felt 
at  times  as  if  I  would  like  to  see  him  punished  by  some 
despotic  power  for  so  outraging  all  sense  of  honor  and  jus 
tice.  I  had  such  a  strong  dislike  of  his  stormy,  passionate 
manner,  that  I  had  a  perfect  horror  myself  of  ever  being  in 
a  passion  and  losing  my  self-control.  He  would  seize  upon 
some  little  mistake  or'accident,  and  scold,  and  scold  about 
it,  in  every  possible  shape  of  scolding  ;  and  if  at  last  the 
individual  scolded  defended  himself,  he  would  reprove  him 
for  getting  so  excited  about  such  little  things.  He  was  al 
ways  sticking  pins  into  his  friends,  and  then  abusing  them 
for  feeling  so  nervous  and  hurt,  and  making  such  a  fuss. 


174  NEPENTHE. 

"  If  there  was  any  cross  in  you,  be  knew  how  to  bring  it 
out.  The  cat  was  more  quiet,  and  hid  away  from  his  coming 
feet.  Little  John  Trap  hushed  his  play  and  sat  quietly  in 
the  corner,  and  Mrs.  Trap  went  fidgetting  around  for  fear 
some  of  those  little  accidents  so  often  occurring  '  in  the  best 
regulated  families,'  might  disturb  John's  always  fuffled 
mood,  and  bring  down  his  thundering  anathemas  about 
'  confounded  carelessness,'  and  '  shocking  forgetfulness,' 
showering  right  and  left  his  complimentary  epithets  of  ras 
cal,  scoundrel,  villain,  scamp,  sneak  and  fool. 

"  He  used  to  go  through  the  house  with  a  spiritual  hammer, 
hunting  out  the  least  corners  in  character,  and  knocking 
them  off  with  sundry  flourishes,  while  he  himself  is  hard  all 
over  ;  he  himself  is  all  corners,  and  cannot  pass  through  any 
circle  of  people  without  hitting  somebody's  views,  unless 
they  dodge  him.  He  is  not  a  man — he  is  an  animated  ham 
mer  ;  but  if  anybody  suspect  him,  accuse  him,  insult  him  in 
the  least  infinitesimal  degree — if  they  show  any  spunk  to 
him,  why  he  can't  tolerate  their  impudence.  He'll  put 
them  through — he'll  give  them  a  thump  and  a  blow,  a  curse 
and  a  growl.  He  has  a  patent  right  to  be  ugly — a  copy 
right  secured  from  his  father  the  Devil,  as  somebody  wick 
edly  said.  If  any  of  his  servants  chanced  to  follow  their 
own  inclinations — treat  themselves  to  a  little  ease,  comfort, 
or  pleasure,  if  they  showed  any  spirit,  he  would  growl  and 
curse,  so  incensed  he  would  get.  Who  has  a  right  to  be 
ugly  but  he  ?  He  never  forgets  an  injury  or  indignity  done 
to  his  infallible  ugliness — and  if  a  man's  conduct  don't  suit 
him,  how  he  wishes  he  could  give  him  a  kick  or  a  few 
shakes. 

"  If  there  were  a  few  more  such  traps  sprung  in  this  lower 
world,  we  wouldn't  have  to  go  to  the  Ravels  for  representa 
tion  of  Pandemonium.  When  his  wife  married  him,  she 
put  her  conscience  in  purgatory.  To  keep  him  well  out  of 
growling,  she  must  be  all  the  time  in  that  intermediate 
state  between  right  and  wrong.  If  he  does  come  home  and 
find  a  peg  out,  or  an  accident  happened,  it  is  all  because  the 
girl  has  not  been  blown  up  enough — he'd  like  to  put  her 
through  a  course  of  sprouts.  His  stentorian  voice  is 
enough  to  arouse  the  dead,  and  he  thinks  his  voice  far  pre 
ferable  to  a  hundred  bells  or  speaking  tubes.  If  he  calls, 
poor  old  Bridget's  dry  bones  must  quickly  stir,  or  he'll 


NEPENTHE.  175 

give  her  a  loud  essay  on  slowness.  He  tells  her  often  her 
memory  is  about  as  long  as  her  nose.  He  says  half  a  dozen 
times  a  day,  she  is  a  fool.  He  always  says,  if  sue  does  not 
come  when  he  calls,  that  she  is  counting  her  beads  or  say 
ing  her  prayers.  He  was  born  with  the  idea  that,  of  course, 
people  ought  to  know  what's  what,  and  to  do  it,  and  not 
make  a  '  'twill  do'  of  every  thing. 

"  I  wish  there  was  a  law  against  this  finding  fault,  except 
under  certain  limitations  and  restrictions  ;  for  instance  :  no 
harsh  fault  finding  more  than  ten  times  a  day  by  the  same 
person.  I  wish  there  was  -some  clause  in  the  constitution, 
by  which  these  pounding,  thumping,  aggravating,  irritating, 
blowing  up,  knocking  down,  rocky  characters,  could  be  put 
on  spiritual  limits. 

"  Little  impulsive,  angry  children,  can  be  spanked  and 
shut  up,  and  punished  in  sundry  waysj  but  these  grown  up 
human  tigers  are  lawlessly  at  large,  trampling  down  green 
leaves  of  sympathy,  crushing  fragrant  flowers  in  woman's 
heart ;  insulting  and  ruthlessly  killing  with  their  caustic 
words,  and  fierce  red-hot  invectives,  all  the  freshness  and 
beauty  of  innocent  and  light-hearted  child.-iood. 

"  Mr.  Trap  actually  expects  his  child  to  be  vastly  more 
self-controlled,  better  behaved,  milder,  quieter  than  he, 
with  his  mature  reason,  and  enlightened  judgment  ever  is. 
Why,  if  John  Trap  comes  home  in  one  01  his  tiger  moods, 
the  child  is  actually  afraid  to  say  boo.  I  have  seen  the  child 
after  one  of  his  father's  unnatural  shakes,  look  up  with  appeal 
ing  tearful  eyes  to  some  invisible  Help — as  if  to  say,  '  I 
never  heard  of  such  things  in  the  land  from  whence  I  came,' 
and  Mrs.  Trap  goes  around  all  day  and  every  day,  with  an 
ache  in  her  heart.  '  Oh,  dear  !'  she  whispers  as  she  kneels 
at  night  by  his  little  bed  ;  '  Oh,  dear,  my  boy — my  bright 
beautiful  boy  can  never  be  a  Christian  if  he  watches  and 
imitates  his  earthly  father.' 

"  Her  life  is  a  martyr's — the  child  is  her  child — and  that 
tiger  is  her  husband,  a  queer  kind  of  a  guardian  he  is,  to 
love,  cherish,  protect  a  child  precocious  in  mind,  in  heart — 
and  a  woman,  all  heart,  sensibility  and  refinement,  and  then 
she  thinks  how  a  few  brief  years  ago,  he  sat  by  her  side,  an 
importunate,  ardent  lover,  with  his  soft  low  words,  so  skill 
fully  modulated  ;  and  he  would  like  her  still  as  much  as  he 
with  his  fierce  nature  can  like,  if  she  would  let  him  be  as  ugly 


176  NEPENTHE. 

as  he  chooses  to  his  child  and  dependants.   What  is  it  to  her 
how  he  treats  others,  if  he  uses  her  well. 

"  Two  years  I  lived  at  his  house,  and  I  wouldn't  trust  a 
cat  in  his  hands,  even  a  '  harmless,  necessary  '  cat. 

"  Mr.  Douglass  is  a  lawyer,  too,  but  he  is  the  soul  of 
honor.  I  would  rather  be  Mr.  Douglass's  cat  than  Mr. 
Trap's  wife,  and  I  would  far  rather  be  a  parish  mouse  than 
John  Trap's  child. 

"  I  lived  with  him  two  years,  and  now  I  would  be  choked 
if  I  had  to  breathe  the  same  air  with  him.  I  never  knew  a  man 
before,  that  I  wanted  to  cage  up  in  iron  bars  until  he  would 
promise  in  the  presence  of  witnesses,  to  be  good  and  keep 
the  peace.  I  have  seen  him  when  angry,  look  at  his  wifo 
as  if  he  would  swallow  her  ;  and  his  child,  as  if  he  would 
annihilate  him. 

"  When  he  gets  enraged,  the  least  thing  excites  him.  I 
believe  he  would  face  a  whole  regiment  of  angels,  and  tell 
them  to  go  to  thnnder.  If  I  see  a  man  get  in  a  rage  once,  I 
never  like  him  as  well  afterwards  ;  but  if  he  gets  in  a  rage 
habitually,  I  haven't  a  shadow  of  respect  for  him. 

"  If  you  will  come  into  my  studio  alone  some  time,  I  will 
show  you  the  portrait  of  Mr.  Trap  in  one  of  these  stormy 
moods.  I  call  it  Tiger.  I  wouldn't  have  him  see  it  for  any 
thing.  Dawn  is  my  ideal  of  sweetness  and  gentleness,  but 
Tiger  is  the  opposite  node  of  humanity,  its  lowest  ebb  of  de 
pravity.  I  think  the  two  pictures  a  startling  contrast. 
Were  a  stranger  to  see  the  portrait  of  Trap,  I  should  call  it 
to  him  Midnight,  but  I  always  think  of  it  as  Tiger,  a  human 
tiger. 

"  All  the  little  property  left  by  my  mother  in  Mr.  Trap's 
hands  I  lost.  He  pretended  he  had  charges  against  rny 
father's  estate  for  law  services.  He  presented  a  long  bill 
of  costs  ;  it  took  all  the  property  to  cancel  it,  but  I  shouldn't 
like  him  any  better  as  a  man  if  he  had  made  me  a  present 
of  several  thousands,  instead  of  explaining  away  my  little  all 
— to  which  I  believe  I  was  justly  entitled 

"  When  he  talks  of  sympathy,  I  always  feel  as  if  the  word 
was  abused.  I  have  heard  it  reported  that  in  Nova  Zembla 
and  in  Greenland  men's  words  are  frozen  in  the  air,  and  are 
never  heard  until  a  thaw.  I  am  sure  in  the  congealing  at 
mosphere  of  John  Trap's  soul,  words  of  sympathy  are  always 
frozen,  and  are  never  heard,  unless  in  some  January  thaw, 


NEPENTHE.  177 

when  they  fall  on  the  ear  cold,  chilling  and  disagreeable,  and 
never  steal  on  the  heart  in  gentle,  genial  April  benedictions, 

"  While  studying  law  Mr.  Trap  taught  school.  Over  the 
door  was  printed  in  large  letters,  '  English  and  Classical 
school  '  Those  who  lived  near  could  frequently  hear  sup 
pressed  cries,  sobs  and  moans.  It  was  Trap's  habit  to 
beat  with  a  rattan  the  hand  of  any  boy  who  missed  four  an 
swers  in  geography.  The  reverberations  of  the  heavy  blows 
could  be  distinctly  heard  in  the  neighboring  houses,  and  the 
sound  was  occasionally  varied  by  the  sharp  tones  of  Trap's 
coarse  voice.  One  of  his  scholars  is  a  man  now.  I  finished 
his  portrait  last  week,  and  he  can't  mention  Trap's  name 
with  calmness.  He  said  he  knew  his  geography  perfectly  in 
the  morning  when  he  left  home,  but  so  poor  was  his  mem 
ory,  and  so  great  his  dread  of  Trap's  rattan,  he  was  sure  to 
miss.  He  dreaded  going  to  school.  He  said  som3  of  the 
boys  looked  on  in  shuddering  sympathy,  and  others  ac 
quired  coarseness  of  feeling  and  brutality  as  they  watched 
this  human  tiger  as  he  cudgelled  some  mother's  carefully 
reared  and  ingenuous  boy.  What  taste  for  knowledge  such 
a  man  inspires  !  What  true  nobility  of  character  fosters. 
This  old  scholar  of  Trap's  says  if  Trap  went  to  Heaven,  he 
was  sure  he  never  wanted  to  go  there  ;  and  the  very  name 
of  school  is  hateful  to  him  since  he  first  attended  Trap's 
English  and  Classical  school.  I  often  wish  I  could  find 
some  Nepenthe  to  enable  me  to  forget  all  those  weary,  un 
happy  hours  of  my  life  at  Trap's. 

"  But  what  is  to  become  of  all  these  fault-finding  John 
Traps  in  Heaven,  if  any  of  them  ever  squeeze  in  there  ? 
They  may  find  some  little  claim  to  steal  in  by.  If  they  get 
in  Heaven,  it  seems  as  if  they  would  need  a  little  extension- 
room  done  off  on  purpose  for  them.  If  I  had  known  only 
such  men  as  John  Trap,  I  should  think  the  world  a  very 
wicked  world — but  I  have  seen  and  known  Douglass  and 
Selwyn.  Douglass  is  a  conscientious  lawyer.  There  is 
need  enough  for  more  such — and  Mrs.  John  Trap  is  a  real 
Christian.  What  a  match  that  was  !  There  was  a  terrible 
loss  in  that  wedding.  Mrs.  Trap  would  make  any  upright 
and  reasonable  man  happy,  but  ice  and  sunshine  might  as 
well  be  wedded  as  Mr.  John  Trap  and  she.  What  does 
make  such  scamps  get  such  lovely  wives  ?" 

"  I  met  an  old  lady  the  other  night,"  said  Mr.  Vole,  "  who 

8* 


178  NEPENTHE. 

told  me  she  had  helped  you  in  your  early  career.  She 
thought  you  took  a  different  turn  while  with  her.  She  was 
glad  things  had  shaped  around  so  that  you  have  made  out 
well  after  all." 

"  I  know  who  that  old  lady  is,"  said  Carleyn,  with  a  mis 
chievous  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  She  is  always  talking  about 
things  '  shaping  round.'  She  wears  green  ribbon  on  her 
bonnet,  carries  a  reticule,  always  looks  over  her  spectacles, 
and  says,  '  I  hope  you  are  well.'  She  always  smiles,  and 
such  a  smile  I  never  saw  on  any  other  face.  Her  name  is 
Miss  Prudence  Potter.  I  used  to  called  her  Aunt  Prudence 
when  I  went  to  school  to  her  in  the  country.  She  taught 
me  to  pronounce  every  syllable  in  Con-stan-ti-no-ple  dis 
tinctly,  to  dot  all  my  i's  and  cross  every  t,  repeat  verbatim, 
'  the  busy  bee,'  and  '  unfading  hope,'  and  '  full  many  a 
flower,'  and  write  without  blot  in  my  copy-book,  '  many  men 
of  many  minds,  many  birds  of  many  kinds.'  Proverbs  in 
numerable  fell  from  her  lips.  She  tried  to  make  me  repeat 
without  pausing  or  stammering,  the  whole  shorter  catechism, 
as  she  kept  me  standing  on  a  crack,  till  I  wished  the  cate 
chism  had  been  shorter.  She  had  an  odd  way  of  explaining 
the  Bible.  She  used  to  say  to  us  little  boys  she  wanted  to 
make  us  understand  the  plan  of  salvation.  She  was  always 
talking  about  that. 

"  She  had  an  old  blue  pitcher  with  a  long  established 
crack  in  the  handle  and  a  piece  out  of  the  end  of  the  spout. 
One  day  when  we  had  school  up  stairs,  while  the  school 
room  below  was  being  fixed,  she  sent  me  for  some  water.  I 
started  with  this  pitcher  in  my  hands.  I  stepped  on  a  stone 
at  the  top  stair,  and  slipped  all  the  way  down  stairs,  landing 
at  the  bottom  with  bruised  shoulders  and  aching  side,  almost 
breaking  my  neck,  but  with  unharmed  pitcher.  Miss  Pru 
dence,  hearing  the  noise,  came  out  and  screamed  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs,  '  Mercy,  Frank  !  have  you  broken  THAT  PITCH 
ER  ?'  '  No,'  said  I,  '  but  I  wish  I  had.'  Whenever  I  think 
of  the  terrible  risk  of  that  contemptible  old  pitcher,  I  give 
an  indignant  grunt,  and  still  I  say  '  but  I  wish  I  had.' 
During  my  first  attempt  at  picture  taking  she  used  to  say, 
'  Now,  Frank,  don't  you  think  you  might  better  never 
thought  of  making  pictures  ?  Don't  you  think  it's  kinder 
foolish  for  you  to  try  ?  I  hope  you'll  succeed,  but  I'm 
afraid  you've  mistaken  your  calling  ;  and  then  if  you  are 


NEPENTHE.  179 

going  to  do  anything  in  the  world  to  get  beforehand,  you 
know  it  is  time  for  you  to  set  about  it.'  And  then  she'd 
take  her  knitting  and  go  off  to  spend  the  afternoon  with 
aunt  Sally,  and  they  would  talk  me  all  over,  and  both  sigh 
and  groan  over  Frank,  and  shake  their  wise  heads,  and  wish 
he  might  do  well,  but  if  he  had  only  taken  some  regular 
business,  or  even  learned  a  good  trade,  he  might  save  up  a 
little  and  settle  down  in  life,  '  Settle  down  in  life  !'  Isn't 
that  a  phrase  !  '  Settle  down  !'  '  I  don't  want  to  settle 
down,'  I  used  to  say,  '  I  want  to  rise  higher?  and  when  the 
first  picture  was  done,  and  well  done,  the  first  hand  to  grasp 
my  own  with  cordial  cheer  was  a  stranger's  ;  while  Aunt 
Prudence  still  said,  '  Well  now,  Frank,  think  of  all  it's  cost 
you  !  How  much  time  you've  taken,  and  how  little  bread 
and  butter  it  has  brought  you.  You  might  have  had  a  few 
acres  all  cleared  by  this  time,  and  a  snug  house  and  a  barn 
on  it,  and  a  cow  and  a  pig  of  your  own.' 

"  But  that  picture.  I  couldn't  tell  her  how  it  cleared 
away  acres  of  obstacles  on  my  onward  path,  how  the  trouble 
some  brushwood,  hitherto  mountain  high  around  me,  burned 
up  and  vanished  away,  and  an  inward  voice,  stronger  than 
all  Miss  Prudence's  loudest  repetition  of  '  A  bird  in  the  hand 
is  worth  two  in  the  bush,' — louder  than  all  her  pitiful 
'  Mercies  !'  urged  me  on,  and  my  heart  said,  '  This  is  the 
way,  walk  ye  in  it.'  I  never  shall  forget  Prudence's  last 
advice  to  me  when  I  left  home  to  come  to  the  city.  '  Well,' 
said  she,  '  Frank,  you  are  sure  of  a  good  living  on  the  farm, 
you'd  better  "  let  well  enough  alone."  '  '  0,  said  I,  '  Aunt 
Prudence, 

'  The  better  never  should  grow  weary, 
But  always  think  of  better  and  fulfill  it.' 

'  High,  inaccessible,  let  all  my  life 
Be  a  continual  aiming  at  that  mark.' 

"  '  Frank,'  said  she,  looking  over  spectacles  and  shaking 
her  head,  '  you'll  find,  after  fiddling  away  your  time  awhile, 
that  this  poetry,  like  love,  is  all/o/  de-roL' 

"  But,"  said  Carleyn,  "  I  have  been  successful  beyond  my 
highest  expectations.  Orders  have  come  to  me  from  all 
quarters.  But  if  you'll  come  in  to-morrow,  I'll  show  you  my 
tiger — a  '  Tiger  in  a  Trap.'  " 

What  a  jubilee  there  would  be  if  all  the  fault-finders 
could  be  banished  for  one  year !  What  bounding  hearts 


180  NEPENTHE. 

and  beating  pulses !  What  elastic  steps — what  sunshiny 
homes — what  active  Bridgets  !  How  the  doctor's  shadow 
on  the  hearthstone  would  grow  small  by  degrees,  and  the 
nurse's  attentions  beautifully  less.  What  a  fall  there  would 
be  in  the  price  of  pills  and  powders,  blisters  and  plasters  ! 
Wouldn't  the  little  folks  have  a  grand  time  for  once — talk 
and  laugh  as  loud  as  they  want,  without  being  interrupted, 
at  each  new  burst  of  fun,  with  "  Johnny,  I'm  surprised  !" 
Wouldn't  they  play  stage-coach  and  rail-road  with  the  chairs, 
build  houses  with  old  books,  hunt  up  unmolested  all  the  old 
strings  to  play  horse  with  ?  Wouldn't  they  laugh  right 
out,  even  at  the  table,  if  they  felt  very  funny  ?  And  if  any 
great  pleasure  excited  them,  wouldn't  they  hop  around  en 
thusiastically,  and  tell  about  it,  without  anybody's  exclaim 
ing,  "  Don't  holler  so,  Johnny — we  are  not  all  deaf!"  and 
have  always  to  be  told  "  that  little  children  should  be  seen 
and  not  heard."  These  little  boys  are  kicked  and  cuffed 
around  because  they  are  only  boys,  and  if  they  stand  still  to 
see  what  is  going  on,  they  are  told  they  are  always  getting 
in  the  way. 

Trouble  kills,  yes  it  kills,  it  stabs,  it  pierces  !  Many 
mortal  headaches  are  brought  on  by  finding  fault — many  a 
disease,  baffling  the  doctor's  skill,  many  a  valuable  life 
ended,  many  a  heart  broken,  many  a  widow  shrouded  in 
weeds,  many  an  orphan  wandering  motherless,  through  find 
ing  fault.  Yet  who  ever  heard  of  its  doing  anybody  any 
good  ?  Who  knows  how  full  of  sorrow  the  heart  already  is  ? 
Who  knows  if  their  finding  fault  may  not  add  the  overflow 
ing  drop  ? 

Hath  ever  human  chronicle  recorded  one  consumptive 
cured,  one  headache  soothed,  heart  healed,  hope  brightened, 
life  lengthened,  or  criminal  reformed,  by  finding  fault  ? 

'Tis  poison,  sure  and  slow,  administered  in  homeopathic 
doses,  hour  by  hour,  to  suffering,  jaded  humanity,  the  effect 
stealing  like  small  doses  of  arsenic  in  the  framework  of  the 
heart,  and  making  life  intolerable. 

Many  a  person  can  do  nothing  but  find  fault.  It  is  a 
habit — a  passion  ;  but  when  the  last  mortal  lips  are  sealed, 
the  last  mortal  eyes  closed,  the  last  heart  stilled,  may  those 
divine  lips  say  to  many  a  scolded,  stricken,  yet  redeemed 
spirit,  "  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee,  go  and  sin  no  more." 

How  can  we  kneel  at  the  eternal  throne,  and  ask  forgive- 


NEPENTHE.  181 

ness  for  our  ceaseless  sinning,  if  we  cannot  utter,  from  hum 
ble  hearts,  that  most  beautiful  of  all  petitions,  "  Forgive  us 
our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass  against  us." 
While  we  harshly  chide  another  for  little  faults,  can  we  not 
read  tbis  startling  thesis  on  the  door  of  conscience,  "  For  if 
ye  forgive  not  men  their  trespasses,  neither  will  your 
Heavenly  Father  forgive  you  your  trespasses." 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

NEPENTHE   ON   EXHIBITION. 

"  Oh  la  belle,  la  noble  destinee  d'avancer  toujours  vers  la  p&fection, 
sans  rencontrer  jamais  le  terme  de  ses  progres." — ANCILLON. 

EVERYBODY  went  to  the  Academy  of  Design  that  year,  and 
so  of  course  Miss  Charity  Gouge  went.  She  was  growing 
yery  near-sighted.  She  was  armed  with  eye-glass,  bouquet 
and  curls,  and  looked  as  welj.  as  she  could  in  her  youthful 
pink  hat  and  stylish  velvet  mantilla.  She  always  wore  white 
kids,  and  if  possible  a  green  dress.  She  had  a  green  moire 
antique,  a  green  brocade,  a  green  cashmere  robed,  every 
thing  was  green  to  suit  her  taste. 

Mr.  Vole  said,  "  Charity  always  looked  green.  Every 
body  knew  you  couldn't  see  much  of  charity  out  in  the  world, 
so  it  couldn't  be  used  to  the  ways  of  society." 

Mr.  Vole  was  always  punning — he  couldn't  help  it.  Many 
of  his  puns  were  very  good  and  bright.  Nobody  who  knew 
him  could  help  liking  him.  Nobody  ever  got  angry  with 
him. 

Miss  Charity,  Miss  Kate  Howard,  and  Mrs.  Edwards  were 
standing  before  one  picture. 

Since  Selwyn's  visit  to  the  studio,  Carleyn  had  painted 
another  ideal,  more  beautiful  than  Dawn.  No  description 
of  ours  can  do  it  justice.  One  must  stand  before  it  to  feel 
the  magic  of  its  beauty,  and  breathe  the  spell  of  its  loveli 
ness.  It  was  the  gem  of  the  Academy,  and  everybody  stop 
ped  before  it,  as  if  enchanted.  The  picture  was  in  the  first 
gallery,  and  was  marked  "  Nepenthe,  No.  126.  F.  E.  Car 
leyn,  A." 

It  was  the  graceful  figure  of  a  maiden.     All  but  the  face 


182  NEPENTHE. 

seemed  shrouded  in  a  misty  veil.  The  tearless  eyes  looked 
forward  as  if  in  eager  expectation  into  the  clear  blue  sky, 
mantling  with  the  first  blush  of  sunrise.  In  her  right  hand 
she  held  a  goblet,  sparkling  with  diamonds.  A  radiant 
aureola  crowns  the  brow  of  the  maiden,  while  around  the 
brim  of  the  goblet  play  wreathing  circles  of  dazzling  light. 
The  robe  is  girded  by  a  rainbow,  and  a  rainbow  spans  the 
aureola  over  her  head.  She  stands  on  the  shore  of  a  raging 
sea,  yet  the  turf  beneath  her  feet  is  sown  with  emeralds  and 
enamelled  with  hearts'  ease,  and  before  her  rests  in  inno 
cence  a  snowy  dove  ;  behind  her,  are  mountains  of  angry 
clouds,  which  her  left  hand,  slight  and  delicate  as  it  seems, 
presses  back  ;  beneath  the  clouds  rolls  and  rages  a  stormy 
sea,  dashing  its  angry  waves  against  the  trail  of  her  robe, 
whose  folds  in  front  are  bordered  with  amaranthine  light. 
She  seems  forgetful  of  the  angry  clouds  and  raging  sea,  as 
she  gazes  intently  into  the  sunlight  beyond,  while  from  the 
ruby  scroll  around  the  goblet,  flash  in  crimson  and  carmine 
glory  the  letters  of  the  magic  word,  "  Nepenthe." 

You  couldn't  catch  Miss  Gouge  in  any  ignorance.  If  she 
didn't  know  what  a  thing  meant,  she  would  put  on  a  wise 
face,  and  keep  very  silent,  and  go  home  and  look  in  the  Dic 
tionary,  or  find  out  in  some  other  sly  way.  She  never 
would  ask  any  one  to  enlighten  her  ignorance.  But  Kate 
Howard  stood  looking  at  the  picture,  and  at  the  name  on  the 
scroll,  with  a  puzzled  expression  in  her  face,  as  if  she  knew, 
and  yet  she  didn't  know  what  was  the  real  design  of  the 
artist.  Mr.  Vole  came  up  and  stood  before  the  picture,  and 
she  turned  and  said, 

"Mr.  Vole,  who  is  Nepenthe?  Was  there  ever  such  a 
person  ?  The  picture  is  all  sunshine  and  beauty  before,  and 
shadow  and  storm  behind.  It  means  something — I'm.  sure 
I  don't  know,  I'm  such  a  little  dunce." 

"  Nepenthe  is  a  remarkable  and  expressive  word — most 
comprehensive,  most  significant,"  said  Mr.  Vole,  standing 
as  erect  as  possible,  straightening  his  collar,  adjusting  his 
cravat,  and  clearing  his  throat,  and  imitating  exactly  Doctor 
Bachune's  wise  manner  and  labored  enunciation.  "  Nepen 
the  is  a  Greek  word,  or  rather  a  compound  of  two  Greek 
words,  ne,  not,  and  penthos,  grief.  There  is  a  kind  of  magic 
potion,  mentioned  by  Greek  and  Roman  poets,  which  was 
supposed  to  make  persons  forget  their  sorrows  and  misfor- 


NEPENTHE.  183 

tunes.  We  moderns,"  he  added,  with  another  throat-clear 
ing,  "  we  moderns  use  it  figuratively,  to  express  a  remedy." 
"  A  second  Daniel,  a  second  Daniel,"  said  Kate,  laughing, 
"  much  obliged  to  you,  doctor,  you  have  very  lucidly  en 
lightened  the  fathomless  profundity  of  my  incomparably 
opaque  ignorance.  I  was  partially  aware  that  it  was  some 
thing  resembling  forgetfulness,  but  I  cherished  only  an 
adumbrant,  idea  of  the  real  intent  of  the  meaning  of  the 
artist's  design,  in  the  uniquely  original  and  mysteriously 
marvellous  conception.  How  much  more  significant  the 
word  Nepenthe  than  Lethe — 

By  whose  bright  water's  magic  stream, 
I  oft  would  rest  and  gladly  dream, 
That  blest  oblivion's  pall  were  cast, 
O'er  all  my  sad  and  troubled  past. 

But  I'd  rather  have  one  quaff  of  this  Nepenthe,  than  the 
whole  river  of  Lethe.  I  could  drink  Nepenthe  and  count 
over  my  old  joys.  Very  few  of  us  would  like  to  forget  all 
the  past. 

For  while  our  thoughts  we  backward  cast, 
We'd  grateful  be  for  joy-gemmed  past. 

Kate  knew  Mr.  Vole  never  puzzled  his  head  much  about 
the  Greek  of  a  thing,  and  she  guessed  he'd  been  asking 
somebody  some  questions  ;  but  assuming  his  natural  •  tone 
again  he  said,  "  The  picture  is  really  full  of  meaning  ;  that 
goblet  containing  the  Nepenthe  is  made  of  diamonds,  and 
scrolled  with  ruby,  because  these  are  the  most  precious  of 
stones,  and  Nepenthe  would  be  the  most  valued  of  potions 
could  we  obtain  it.  The  most  highly  prized  varieties  of  ruby 
are  the  crimson  and  carmine,  so  you  notice  these  shades  in  the 
scroll.  The  figure  stands  on  the  turf  enamelled  with  heart's 
ease,  and  the  dove  is  in  front,  to  show  that  when  sorrows 
and  sins  are  forgotten,  our  souls  might  rest  in  heart's  ease  and 
innocence,  while  our  life  would  be  girdled  and  spanned  over 
by  the  rainbow  promise,  that  sorrow  should  overwhelm  us 
no  more,  and  with  tearless  eyes  as  we  hold  this  precious  cup 
we  could  ever  be  looking  out  for  the  sunrise  of  dawning 
hopes  and  the  culminating  of  rising  joy,  while  as  with  the 
touch  of  a  light  hand  we  could  press  behind  us  billows  and 
clouds." 

"  I  wish,  Miss  Kate,"  said  Mr.  Vole,  sadly,  "  some  of  this 


184  NEPENTHE. 

old  Greek  poetry  were  true.  I'd  give  my  right  arm,"  he  added, 
"  for  one  good  drink  of  this  Nepenthe.  Then  my  sins  and 
troubles  would  be  in  the  circle  of  perpetual  occultation  ;  and 
my  spirits  would  be  as  far  from  the  pole  of  depression  as  any 
true  elevating  joy  is  now  above  my  life's  horizon.  My  past 
sorrows  form  a  circle  of  perpetual  apparition.  They  are 
ghosts,  spectres,  visible  spirits." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Vole,"  said  Kate,  suddenly,  "  I  thought  you 
never  had  any  sober  thoughts." 

"  I  do  sometimes,"  sail  he,  "  when  I  read  some  poem  or 
see  a  picture  like  this.  I've  been  here  every  day  for  a  week 
to  look  at  this  picture.  I  never  had  a  sober  thought  in  my 
head  until  I  heard  a  sermon  on  self-denial,  some  years  ago, 
and  I  will  candidly  say  there  hasn't  been  a  day  since,  that  it 
hasn't  come  into  my  mind.  It  was  a  sermon  by  Prof. 
Henry." 

"  I  don't  see  much  in  that  picture,"  said  Miss  Gouge,  look 
ing  up  to  them  as  they  were  talking.  "  Who  is  Carleyn  ?  I 
never  heard  of  him  before  ;  he  can't  be  much  of  an  artist  of 
any  note." 

"  I  heard  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Edwards,  "  where  I  first  saw 
you,  Miss  Gouge,  in  that  little  village,  where  we  spent  the 
summer,  'twas  twelve  years  ago  last  June.  I  remember  a 
friend  of  yours  telling  me  that  evening  we  were  together,  at 
a  party  where  they  had  such  a  gay  time,  that  you  had  just 
come  of  age,  and  you  were  going  to  travel.  Who'd  think  it 
was  so  long  since  then — and  Mrs.  Edwards  was  there  with  me 
then,  and  you  and  he  danced  together,  and  young  Carleyn,  he 
was  a  mere  boy  then,  said  you  were  the  belle  of  the  even 
ing. 

"  Frank  I  think  his  mother  called  him,  was  then  a  boy  of 
fourteen.  He  was  handsome  and  diffident.  He  made  a  good 
deal  of  talk'in  the  neighborhood  even  then.  I  never  saw 
finer  eyes,  and  his  hair  was  black  and  glossy — he  had  a  pale 
face.  I've  often  thought  that  some  souls  get  into  the  wrong 
bodies,  bodies  that  were  never  made  for  them,  but  Carleyn's 
soul  and  body  were  made  for  each  other,  they  fit  nicely  ; 
some  clergyman  said  of  him,  when  he  was  about  nineteen, 
he  was  too  handsome  to  be  a  Christian,  but  that  was  a  fool 
ish  speech  I  think. 

"  His  father  tried  to  make  a  farmer  of  him,  but  the  boy 
would  steal  off  after  flowers,  or  sit  down  on  the  river's  bank 


NEPENTHE.  185 

and  watch  the  shadows  of  the  trees  in  the  water.  He  would 
make  a  picture  of  every  pretty  thing  he  saw,  and  they  say 
there  was  not  a  chip  on  his  father's  farm  that  bad  not  a  face 
or  eyes,  nose,  or  mouth  on  it.  He  couldn't  make  a  farmer 
of  him  because  he  wouldn't  stick  to  it,  so  he  sent  him  off  to 
make  him  a  clerk — but  hefore  he  knew  it,  he'd  be  taking 
pictures  of  his  fellow  clerks  all  over  the  ledger.  His  em 
ployer  sent  word  to  his  father  that  the  boy's  mind  was  evi 
dently  not  on  that  business  ;  so  Frank  came  home  again  and 
they  tried  to  make  a  tailor  of  him,  but  that  wouldn't  do. 

"  One  day  his  father  called  him  to  go  on  an  errand,  but 
he  was  nowhere  to  be  found — so  he  went  up  softly  into 
Frank's  room,  and  there  was  Frank  finishing  off  his  mother's 
portrait.  It  was  really  a  wonderful  likeness,  though  done 
with  rough  materials.  The  surprised  father  went  down 
stairs  and  into  his  field  again,  and  never  said  a  word — but  it 
wasn't  long  before  he  had  his  portrait  taken. 

"  His  mother  died  when  he  was  quite  young,  in  that  little 
cottage  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  I  remember  just  how 
it  looked  when  I  used  to  ride  by,  and  stop  at  Timothy  Ti- 
tus's,  and  that  was  long  before  Ernest  Titus  died. 

"  If  Frank's  mother  could  only  have  lived  to  have  known 
of  her  son's  celebrity  ;  but  she  knew  before  he  died  that  he 
would  surely  be  an  artist,  and  she  helped  him  all  she  could. 
Uefore  she  died  he  had  sent  a  painting  on  to  some  exhibi 
tion,  and  he  got  a  prize  for  it.  She  knew  he  would  succeed, 
and  she  taught  him  early  to  fear  God.  Ho  is  said  to  be  as 
conscientious  as  he  is  gifted,  which  is  a  rare  thing  in  these 
days. 

"  'Tis  a  false  notion  which  people  have,  that  genius  must 
be  erratic  ;  but  it  is  too  true  that  many  of  this  class  are  not 
practical  Christians.  Yet  it  is  a  great  mistake  to  say  that 
devoted  piety  is  not  found  combined  with  great  ability.  I 
know  it  is  a  rare  combination,  and  I  acknowledge  great 
reverence  for  a  man  who  is  a  true  Christian,  and  great  and 
gifted  too.  If  a  man  becomes  distinguished,  he  is  too  apt 
to  be  so  conceited  that  it  sticks  out  all  over  him." 

"  This  picture,"  said  Kate  Howard,  "  is  unlike  anything 
in  the  whole  exhibition.  Carleyn  says  it  is  the  only  picture 
he  has  taken  which  suits  him  at  all,  and  he  really  couldn't 
have  had  a  better  name  for  it.  If  it  were  the  face  of  a  real 
woman,  she  might  feel  highly  complimented  on  becoming  so 


186  NEPENTHE. 

celebrated — and  if  it  is  an  ideal,  it  does  seem  as  if  he  must 
have  caught  the  expression  from  some  living  face." 

"  I  never  shall  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Edwards,  "  how  that 
proud  Mrs.  Pridefit  treated  Carleyn's  mother  when  she  was 
in  the  country — as  if  she  was  of  no  account.  Mrs.  Pridefit 
was  full  of  her  high  notions,  and  now  she  has  had  her  por 
trait  taken  by  Carleyn,  and  is  rather  proud  of  it  too." 

"  Yes,"  said  Kate,  "  I  have  heard  that  Mrs,  Pridefit  quite 
ignored  that  little  unpretending  Mrs.  Carleyn,  while  in  the 
country." 

"  Now  that  he  has  become  a  celebrated  artist  all  the  girls 
are  setting  their  caps  for  him,"  said  Mrs.  Edwards.  "  Flo 
rence  Elliott  is  really  in  love  with  him." 

"  Hush  !"  whispered  Kate,  with  her  finger  on  her  lip — 
"  there  he  is  now,  and  that  is  Florence  Elliott  by  his  side. 
She  always  has  a  bevy  of  gentlemen  around  her.  I  have 
seen  him  here  three  times  this  week." 

"  I  don't  see  anything  very  beautiful  about  her"  said 
Miss  Gouge,  opening  as  wide  as  possible  her  very  small 
eyes  and  raising  her  glass.  "  Her  eyes  are  too  large.  I 
never  admired  her  style  of  beauty — it  is  unfeminine." 

"  All  the  gentlemen  admire  her,"  said  Kate,  mischiev 
ously. 

"  There  isn't  one  gentlemen  in  a  hundred  who  is  any 
judge  of  female  beauty,"  said  Charity. 

"  Well,"  said  Kate,  "  I  hope  Mr.  Carleyn  will  suit  him 
self.  If  he  likes  Miss  Elliott,  I'm  satisfied.  You  don't  of 
ten  find  a  couple  where  both  are  equally  agreeable.  You'll 
often  see  a  man  that  is  cross  as  a  bear,  and  a  woman  gentle 
as  an  angel.  Carleyn  would  certainly  make  a  good  hus 
band.  His  friends  seem  to  like  him  as  well  as  the  world. 
There  are  many  prizes  in  life's  lottery,  and  some  people  are 
always  drawing  them.  Florence  Elliott  may  be  one  of  these 
fortunate  ones. 

"  I  have  heard  that  she  has  said  she  never  failed  in  any 
thing  she  undertook — but  no  match  suits  everybody.  But 
who  is  that  tall,  hollow-eyed  woman  looking  so  steadily  at 
that  picture  ?  She  looks  a?  if  some  new  idea  had  dawned 
upon  her  mind — and  she  is  muttering,  too  :  do  look  at  her  ! 
don't  she  look  queer  ?  She  is  the  only  plainly  dressed  wo 
man  here." 

"  Oh.  she  is  nobody,"  said  Miss  Charity  Gouge,  going  on 


NEPENTHE.  187 

with  the  conversation.  "  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  Carleyn 
myself.  I  never  would  marry  a  genius  ;  but  as  he  is  a  pro 
fessor,  and  has  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  set  his  heart  on  di 
vine  things,  and  renounced  its  pomps  and  vanities,  he  must 
of  course  seek  first  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  I  don't  see 
how  his  conscience  or  Christian  vows  can  ever  allow  him  to 
marry  such  a  light-minded,  frivolous  girl  as  that  coneeited, 
intolerable  Florence  Elliott." 

"  Such  men  often  do  marry  those  who  are  not  professing 
Christians,"  said  Kate  mischievously,  "  and  for  myself,  I 
would  rather  live  with  some  agreeable  sinners,  as  you  call 
them,  than  some  crabbed  Christians." 

"  The  directions  of  the  Bible  are  very  explicit  on  that 
point,"  said  Miss  Charity.  "  '  Be  not  conformed  to  the 
world,  be  not  unequally  yoked  together  with  unbelievers.' 
I  have  had  reason  to  think  much  on  this  subject  from  my 
own  experience,  but  I  am  thankful  that  grace  enabled  me  to 
keep  firm." 

Kate  smiled — she  was  thinking  of  what  Mr.  Vole  said 
about  the  gentlemen  always  trying  to  get  rid  of  the  demands 
of  charity. 

"  But  do  see  that  impudent  beggar  woman,"  said  Miss 
Gouge.  "  She  has  actually  stepped  on  my  dress.  Just  see 
what  a  horrid  spot  of  mud  this  is,  and  every  thing  spots  this 
dress — even  water.  I  wish  there  were  some  law  to  keep  off 
these  troublesome  beggars  ;  they  are  so  annoying  they  ought 
not  to  be  allowed  to  go  at  large.  There  are  so  many  benev 
olent  associations  for  their  relief,  none  of  them  need  suffer  ; 
and  then  they  can  surely  be  made  comfortable  in  the  poor- 
house.  For  my  part  I  would  have  no  objection  to  going 
there  myself,  if  Providence  should  see  fit  to  deprive  me  of 
my  present  resources,  and  I  should  be  contented  in  any  sit 
uation  in  which  He  thought  proper  to  place  me." 

"  I  couldn't,"  said  Kate  frankly  ;  "  as  I  now  feel  I  should 
be  a  most  miserable  being  if  I  were  poor.  It  does  very 
well  for  you,  Miss  Charity,  so  richly  clad  and  luxuriously 
fed,  with  plenty  of  money  in  the  bank  to  pay  to-day's  debts, 
and  buy  to-morrow's  comforts,  to  talk  about  being  contented 
in  poverty.  Poverty  looks  very  different  to  you,  as  you 
look  at  it  with  your  glass,  through  draperied  windows,  from 
what  it  would  if  you  were  hungry  and  barefooted,  walking 
the  streets  with  no  home  in  prospect  but  that  '  comfortable  ' 


188  NEPENTHE. 

poorhouse.  As  to  the  poorhouse,  '  distance  lends  enchant 
ment  to  the  view'  of  that  mansion  of  contentment,  that  safe 
and  respectable  retreat  for  homeless  paupers — where,  if 
Providence  should  mark  out  the  way,  so  many  affluent  la 
dies  say  they  should  be  so  grateful  and  willing  to  go  and  be 
provided  for.  I  know  they  don't  mean  it — their  aristocratic 
heads  could  not,  without  murmur,  pass  under  those  lowly 
portals. 

"  I  have  often  wished  I  could  give  the  world  one  goad 
shake,  just  for  a  week  or  so,  and  see  these  contented  mil 
lionaires  and  miserable  paupers  change  places.  There 
would  be  far  more  groans  and  growls  in  that  comfortable 
poorhouse  than  you'll  hear  in  any  respectable  asylum  for 
lunatics  in  a  month." 

-  "  I  know,"  said  Miss  Charity,  "  that  I  have  learned  with 
the  apostle,  '  in  whatsoever  state  I  am,  to  be  content.'  I 
don't  think  poverty  the  worst  evil  that  can  befall  one.  I 
know  I  could  follow  the  leadings  of  Providence — but  most 
all  poverty  is  brought  on  by  idleness." 

"  Yes,"  said  Kate,  in  a  low  tone,  "  it  is  always  idleness  ; 
so  the  rich  say  as  they  fold  their  lazy  hands,  and  lisp  out 
with  indolent  tongues,  '  'tis  nothing  but  idleness — they  de 
serve  it.' 

"  Aye  !  idleness  !  the  rich  folks  never  fail 
To  find  some  reason  why  the  poor  deserv 
Their  miseries." 

"  Yes,"  muttered  Miss  Charity,  drawing  her  mantilla 
closely  around  her,  and  holding  more  tightly  her  well-filled 
purse  in  which  was  the  whole  amount  of  her  last  year's  annu 
ity  in  solid  gold — "  it  is  astonishing  how  little  we  can  get 
along  with  if  we  only  think  so,  and  these  poor  people  need 
very  little.  The  real  wants  of  life  are  very  few,"  thought 
she,  as  she  entered  a  large  store  to  purchase  a  new  opera 
glass — for  hers  was  a  little  less  elegant  than  the  one  she 
had  seen  Mrs.  Elliott  have,  and  she  fancied  she  would  like 
one  of  that  sort.  She  also  purchased  a  new  breakfast  set, 
of  jewelry,  ear-rings,  sleeve  buttons  and  brooch.  "  How 
economical  I  am  getting,"  thought  she.  as  she  gathered  up 
the  folds  of  her  velvet  dress,  which  was  of  the  heaviest  and 
costliest  material. 


NEPENTHE.  189 

CHAPTEE    XXII. 

MADAME    FUTURE. 

FLORENCE  ELLIOT  reads  in  the  morning  paper  : 

AN  ASTONISHING  ASTROLOGER — MADAM  FTJTURE. — This  highly  gifted  lady  is 
the  seventh  daughter,  and  was  born  with  a  gift  to  tell  the  past,  present, 
and  future  events  of  life.  All  who  wish  a  speedy  marriage,  may  call  soon  and 
see  her  invoke  the  powers  of  her  wonderful  science.  She  will  tell  you  all  you 
wish  to  know,  even  your  very  thoughts,  and  show  you  the  likeness  of  your  in 
tended  husband.  She  has  just  returned  from  Europe,  where  she  had  unparal 
leled  success.  No  charge  if  not  satisfied. " 

Florence  Elliot  was  soon  at  the  office  of  the  far-famed  and 
learned  Madam  Future.  The  room  was  dimly  lighted,  and 
quite  heavily  draped  in  black,  and  the  light  fell  rather  on 
the  face  of  Florence  than  on  the  astrologer,  gipsy,  magician, 
or  whatever  she  was.  She  was  closely  veiled. 

"  Lady,  do  you  want  your  fortune  told  ?"  said  she,  ad 
dressing  Florence. 

"  You  advertised,  and  to  amuse  an  idle  hour  I  have  come. 
Curiosity  drew  me  hither.  Can  you  read  the  future  ?  Here 
is  my  hand,"  said  Florence,  as  she  held  out  her  small,  deli 
cate,  jewelled  hand,  and  a  piece  of  gold. 

"  I  see  nothing  in  your  hand — no  destiny — there  are  not 
many  crosses  there,"  said  the  woman.  "  Fortune  favors 
you — you  were  born  rich — you  will  die  rich.  You  are  an 
only  child.  You  have  been,  until  recently,  the  only  young 
person  living  in  that  house.  Your  father  was  killed  in 
battle.  Your  were  born  on  Southern  soil.  That  accounts 
for  your  blood  and  temperament,  as  hot  as  the  climate. 
Only  a  week  ago  you  stood  by  the  mirror,  and  you  said  to 
yourself,  '  I  am  young  and  beautiful,  my  hair  is  glossy,  my 
eyes  are  bright,  my  lashes  long  and  heavy,  my  form  is  sym 
metrical,  and  my  step  elastic.  But  one  thing  I  must  have.' 
With  all  these  charms,  you  are  not  happy.  I  see  it  in  your 
restless  eye,  flushed  cheek  and  impatient  step.  I  see  it  as 
you  walk  in  the  street,  and  when  you  promenade  Broadway 
so  often  at  three  o'clock.  One  image  sits  at  your  heart— 
one  form  hovers  in  your  dreams — one  hope  is  burning  in 
your  life,  and  one  fear  tortures  you  lest  that  hope  be  not 
gratified." 


190  NEPENTHE. 

She  took  her  glass,  looking  in  it  awhile,  and  muttering. 
At  length  she  speaks  : 

"  I  watched  your  star.  It  has  been  slowly  rising,  clear 
and  bright,  climbing  up  the  western  sky.  I  turn  the  glass, 
and  far  off  in  the  dim  distance,  i  see  a  little  pale  star.  From 
the  western  sky  it  rises,  appears  clear  and  bright,  disap 
pears,  pales  and  vanishes.  That  little  star  appears  again, 
slowly  rises,  and  follows  in  your  path." 

"  Tell  me,  witch,  wizard,  sybil,  whatever  you  are,  is  that 
a  star  of  magnitude  ]  Is  it  a  meteor  only  to  fade,  a  planet 
to  wander,  or  will  it  be  a  fixed  star  in  my  path  ?" 

"  What  is  your  path,  lady  ?" 

"  That  is  for  you  to  tell,"  said  Florence.  "I  came  not 
here  to  reveal,  but  to  learn."'' 

"  The  future  is  always  veiled.  I  can  only  see  it  through 
misty  clouds  and  shadowy  outlines.  I  can  see  but  one  ob 
stacle  in  your  path  that  must  be  crushed.  I  cannot  tell  you 
now  the  end — come  again,  and  I  will  cast  your  horoscope 
more  fully." 

';  Have  you  no  charms  ?"  said  Florence. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  cause  love.  Your  charms  are  already 
all-sufficient,  but  even  these  I  can  heighten.  You  shall  be 
come  radiantly  beautiful,  as  beautiful  as  an  artist's  dream." 

Florence  started.  Did  this  strange  woman  really  know 
that  the  dream  of  her  life  was  of  an  artist  ? 

"  No  man  is  insensible  to  personal  beauty,"  said  the  wo 
man,  going  behind  a  curtain,  and  bringing  out  a  vial,  saying, 
"  This  is  no  love  charm,  no  spell,  but  this  I  give  you  shall 
heighten  your  already  peerless  beauty.  I  will  give  it  you 
in  minute  doses.  It  is  a  tonic  and  alterative — is  sometimes 
given  by  oriental  physicians,  and  is  remarkable  for  its  won 
derful  influence  upon  the  skin.  I  call  it  Hidri.  It  may  be 
swallowed  daily  for  years,  and  no  harm  be  done.  It  will  give 
plumpness  to  the  figure,  clearness  and  softness  to  the  skin, 
beauty  and  freshness  to  the  complexion.  It  will  improve 
the  breathing,  so  that  steep  heights  can  be  easily  climbed  ; 
it  will  heighten  your  charms — your  complexion  will  be  clear 
and  blooming,  your  figure  full  and  round.  You  must  take 
half  a  grain  two  or  three  times  a  week,  in  the  morning,  fast 
ing,  till  you  get  accustomed  to  it,  carefully  increasing  the 
dose.  You  will  soon  breathe  with  greater  ease,  and  your 
voice  will  have  greater  compass  and  flexibility.  13ut  once 


NEPENTHE.  191 

commence  it,  you  must  continue  the  practice  through  life, 
and  the  results  are  sure  and  satisfactory.  The  dose  must 
be  adapted  to  the  constitution  and  habit  of  body  ;  but  of 
this  I  will  tell  you  more  hereafter.  I  myself  have  taken  it 
for  thirty  years.  I  take  two  grains  at  each  dose." 

Florence  looked  through  a  long  glass,  to  see  the  object 
she  loved  best.  She  was  a  little  frightened  and  excited,  but 
sure  enough,  at  the  other  end  of  the  glass  there  was  a  pic 
ture  of  Frank  Carleyn's  face,  distinct,  vivid,  and  life-like. 

The  globe,  charms,  parchments,  hieroglyphics,  heavy  cur 
tains,  dark-looking  bottles,  the  artist's  portrait,  and  the  half- 
veiled  face  of  the  woman,  bewildered  and  excited  Florence, 
and  she  went  home  in  a  strange,  unhappy  mood,  more  anx 
ious  and  determined  than  ever  to  go  again  to  the  consulting 
office  of  the  far-famed  and  learned  Madame  Future. 

As  Florence  passed  out,  a  lady  closely-veiled  passed  in. 
Her  form,  and  something  in  her  walk  seemed  familiar  to 
Florence,  but  the  lady  seemed  anxious  to  pass  out  of  sight, 
and  escape  observation  ;  and  Florence  was  so  desirous  of 
preserving  her  own  incognito,  that  she  dared  not  to  look 
back  at  the  lady,  to  guess  or  wonder  if  possible  who  she 
might  be — and  yet  there  was  something  so  familiar  about 
her. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

CARLBYN'S  JOURNAL — SUBJECT,  MATRIMONY. 

"  Of  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mind 
That  through  the  soul  come  thronging, 

What  one  is  e'er  so  dear,  so  kind, 
So  beautiful  ad  longing !" — LOWELL. 

"  BEFORE  I  marry,  I  must  know  a  woman  thoroughly — so 
Selwyn  tells  me.  A  woman  may  be  bewitching  at  opera, 
fete,  or  ball,  but  be  no  soother  or  sympathizer  to  come  home 
to  when  weary.  Before  an  engagement  is  formed,  solemn 
and  binding  as  any  engagement  ought  to  be,  the  every-day 
type  of  a  woman's  life  should  be  known.  How  she  treats 
servants,  how  much  respect,  consideration,  kindness  she 
shows  other  members  of  her  family — how  she  consoles  the 
poor  and  the  sick  and  the  unfortunate.  Many  women  get  up 


192  NEPENTHE. 

sets  of  charms  for  public  levees,  soirees  and  receptions, 
hops  and  musicals.  Yet  a  true  wife  is  a  diamond,  shining 
brighter  in  life's  daily  rough  friction — so  the  old  book  says. 
If  I  only  visit  a  lady  when  she  expects  me,  I  can't  find  her 
out — so  says  my  mentor,  Selwyn.  She  can  much  easier 
learn  my  taste,  habits  and  disposition.  A  business  or  pro 
fessional  man  can  never  quite  hush  up  his  faults  among  his 
friends.  If  he  is  dishonorable,  or  ill-tempered,  some  lady 
will  find  it  out — she  may  have  some  brother  or  friend  who 
can  easily  hear  of  his  peculiarities.  A  man  in  the  business 
world  can't  be  so  walled  about  with  conventionalities  as  to 
prevent  sundry  revealings  and  multifarious  disclosures. 
Somebody  will  hear  somebody  say  that  he  is  arbitrary,  ty 
rannical,  selfish,  passionate,  dishonest,  immoral,  or  avari 
cious — if  he  really  is  so,  it  will  leak  out.  The  real  man  is 
chiselled  out  in  society  with  strongly  marked  features.  His 
tailor  and  his  shoemaker,  even  while  the  one  takes  his 
measure  and  the  other  makes  a  last  for  his  sole,  may  get 
some  idea  of  the  spiritual  dimensions  and  the  shape  and  cast 
of  his  real  soul. 

"  Men's  daguerreotypes  and  portraits  often  take  more  easily 
than  women's — their  features  are  usually  more  strongly 
marked.  So  on  the  canvas  of  society,  many  a  man's  charac 
ter  is  clearly  drawn  and  fully  revealed,  from  some  rough 
and  truthful  sketch,  taken  by  anxious,  watching  eyes,  in  his 
counting-house,  ofiice  or  studio.  But  a  woman  shut  up  in  a 
temple  of  home  apart,  is  brought  out  on  festal  days,  decked 
with  flowers  and  wreathed  with  smiles,  to  receive  as  her 
right,  the  incense  of  praise  and  flattery.  How  easy  to  robe 
herself  with  the  magic  of  loveliness,  attracting  the  admira 
tion  of  man,  and  piqueing  the  ambition  of 'rival  women.  If 
she  be  as  peerlessly  beautiful  as  Florence  Elliott,  how  many 
captivated  hearts  and  worshipful  knees  will  bow  at  her  ele 
gant  shrine. 

"  Selwyn  keeps  talking  to  me  about  behind  the  stage,  as 
if  a  woman  when  in  company  like  the  figures  in  show  win 
dows  was  out  on  exhibition  looking  her  prettiest. 

"  'Tis  true  you  find  out  what  the  actor  is,  and  what  part 
he  takes,  and  how  much  he  drills  for  the  public,  if  you  get 
behind  the  stage.  What  a  pity  that  in  love  as  in  law,  the 
attachment  comes  first  and  the  judgment  afterwards. 

"  It  is  a  serious 'business  to  get  a  wife — but  I  don't  mean, 


NEPENTHE.  193 

on  account  of  the  risk,  to  live  alone  always.  One  does  not 
want  onesself  always  for  one's  company  through  all  life's 
long,  lonely  evenings,  and  dull,  rainy  days. 

"  Let  me  sketch  my  ideal  of  a  wife  ;  but  somebody  says 
no  man  ever  marries  his  ideal  ;  but  then  a  man  is  quite  apt 
to  have  an  ideal  walking  about  his  soul  like  a  beautiful 
vision,  half  shadow,  half  substance,  and  it  is  a  comfort  to  a 
man  to  have  an  ideal  wife,  even  if  you  never  marry  her.  It 
does  him  good  to  sit  by  the  fire  at  nightfall,  after  contact 
with  rough  men  and  dream  of  her.  It  is  pleasant  to  sit  and 
think  how  Mrs.  Carleyn  would  look  in  a  blue  silk  dress,  how 
she  will  smile,  what  she  will  say,  and  how  she  will  have  my 
dressing-gown  all  ready  when  I  come  at  night.  " 

Carleyn  writes  one  or  two  pages  more  about  his  ideal 
wife,  and  falls  asleep.  The  soft  light  of  the  shaded  gas  lin 
gers  upon  his  open  journal,  and  if  you  are  not  out  of  pa 
tience,  reader,  we  will  just  read  over  what  he  has  written. 
'Tis  a  page  from  his  heart,  and  unless  we  read  it  while  he 
is  asleep,  we  are  quite  sure  we  never  will  see  it. 

"  My  wife  must  appreciate  me  for  what  I  am.  If  I  think 
deeply,  feel  strongly,  study  profoundly,  talk  eloquently,  I 
could  never  be  satisfied  with  a  wife  who  couldn't  judiciously 
appreciate  my  highest  efforts  in  tongue,  pen  or  life.  Should 
I  have  a  beautiful  thought,  and  my  wife  know  it  not,  or 
knowing  care  not,  or  only  amiably  echo  what  Frank  says  is 
all  well  and  good,  because  Frank  says  it,  I  should  soon  feel 
an  indifference  for  her. 

"  If  she  be  not  always  reigning  queen  in  the  realm  of  my 
thoughts,  she  may  silently,  quietly,  walk  there,  inhaling  the 
perfume  of  every  flower  therein  planted,  admiring  every 
gem  therein  set,  and  know  enough  of  that  complicated  mi 
crocosm,  a  man's  world,  if  there  is  a  jar  to  keep  quiet,  but  ever 
near  enough  to  give  sympathy,  cheer  encouragingly,  when 
the  storm  cloud  mood  is  over.  A  footfall  disturbs,  at  times, 
man's  solitary  moods,  an  echo  irritates.  My  ideal  wife  does 
not  demonstrate  over  every  demonstration  I  make,  but  she 
must  know  enough  to  see  clearly  if  I  draw  correctly,  define 
correctly,  or  fill  out  perfectly.  She  needn't  be  able  to  dig 
with  me  among  Greek  and  Latin  roots,  but  keep  the  air 
around  pleasant,  the  sky  bright,  so  that  I  may  dig  more  com 
fortably. 

9 


194  NEPENTHE. 

"  No  glossy  hair,  no  ruby  lips,  no  glowing  complexion, 
nor  even  agreeable  manners,  can  supply  the  demand  of  long, 
lonely,  rainy  days,  anxious  nights,  business  failures,  losses, 
crosses.  I  must  have  a  wife  with  a  soul.  But  how  is  it, 
when  I  sketch  my  ideal,  it  seems  like  a  spiritual  crayon  por 
trait.  I  think  of  deeds,  tones,  words,  thoughts,  feelings,  af 
fections,  but  I  give  no  color  to  eyes,  hair  or  lips.  I  think 
not  of  the  temple,  but  of  its  fair  occupant,  who  ever  lingers 
around  the  shrine  of  my  inmost  heart. 

"  But  what  shape  will  this  ideal  take  ?  Who  in  this  wide 
world  of  mortal  women  is  to  share  the  artist's  det»tiny  ?  If 
I  am  to  Have  a  wife  of  my  youth,  she  is  now  living  on  the 
earth.  Love  her,  and  pray  for  her  weal,  says  the  proverb 
poet.  How  can  I  love  her,  whom  I  have  not  seen  ?  But  I 
do  love  my  ideal  wife  most  tenderly.  She  is  a  picture  in 
my  soul  without  frame.  I'll  hang  it  up  in  the  private  gal 
lery  of  my  heart,  and  look  around  and  see  if  I  can  find  a 
frame  to  suit  it.  Such  a  picture  would  look  well  in  an  ele 
gant  frame. 

"  'Twill  be  hard  to  find  one  ornate  and  polished  enough — 
but  they  say  the  best  souls  have  often  the  plainest  frames. 
What  a  beautiful  frame  that  Florence  Elliott  has  !  Beauti 
ful,  polished,  elegant.  There  is  hardly  a  line  or  hue  you 
would  alter.  Nature  has  made  her  with  faultless  frame,  and 
she  seems  every  day  to  me  more  beautiful,  and  I  do  like  to 
look  at  a  beautiful  face.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  gaze  at  Florence 
Elliott's  peerless  loveliness. 

"  Tossed  on  the  billowy  surges  of  this  restless  life,  the 
only  earthly  rest  is  the  pillowing  the  aching  heart,  sea-sick 
with  life's  rolling,  foaming  motion,  on  a  heart  that  loves  you. 
There  is  not  in  all  the  world  a  heart  so  plunged  in  life's 
etyx,  that  has  not  some  loophole  or  crevice,  arch  or  doorway, 
skylight  or  hatchway,  where  love  may  not  look  through, 
creep  under,  steal  in,  or  climb  up,  or  twine  around.  Some 
times  he  comes  like  a  fluttering  bird  asking  for  crumbs. 

"  We  are  all,  at  some  time  of  our  lives,  Columbus-like, 
seeking  for  this  new  world  of  love.  We  long  to  plant  our 
tired  feet  on  this  terra  firma  incognita.  As  we  sail  out  on 
the  stream  of  life,  there  come  floating  to  us  little  green 
sprigs  of  sympathy,  and  some  carefully  carved  memento  of 
affection.  We  know  that  some  heart  is  carving  out  Borne 


NEPENTHE.  195 

where  a  Lome  for  us,  where  we  may  walk  in  aiid  rest   when 
weary  with  life's  hot  heat  and  heavy  burden. 

"  Who  is  now  fitting  a  home  for  my  heart  ? — what  hand 
waiting  to  clasp  mine  ? — what  voice  will  say,  '  for  better,  for 
worse  ;  for  richer,  for  poorer,  in  sickness,  in  health.'  This 
is  the  charm  of  the  tie. 

"  What  life  is  ever  complete  without  love  ?  It  casts  a 
shadow  or  sheds  a  glow  over  most  every  history,  yet  it  ia 
often  ridiculed. 

"  We  keep  love  from  the  young  eye  ;  hide  it  from  tho 
young  heart  ;  yet  surer  than  prophecy,  will  that  very  eye  and 
heart  sparkle  and  thrill  at  one  love  story,  silently,  quietly, 
told  all  to  itself  alone. 

"  We  tease  and  ridicule  the  young  if  they  talk  or  read  of 
love — educated  to  show  and  shine  and  flirt,  but  not  to 
love. 

"  Even  he  who  laughs  at  love  stories,  has  hidden  in  his 
heart,  its  inmost  holy,  when  the  vail  is  rent  aside,  an  image 
of  something  he  could  thus  love. 

"  Somewhere  in  the  life  of  every  loving  and  attractive 
woman,  is  written  a  manly  name.  Could  you  trace  the 
hidden  hieroglyphics  of  every  womanly  heart,  you  would  find 
moss-grown  or  grass-grown,  cypress-wreathed  or  turf-cover 
ed,  one  dear  name.  Sometimes  it  is  on  the  heart's  door 
plate,  finely  engraven  and  carefully  kept  bright.  Tears 
never  efface  the  name.  In  the  quiet  Greenwood  of  many  a 
womanly  heart,  never  called  wife,  is  an  enduring  marble 
slab,  with  this  legible  inscription,  '  Sacred  to  the  Memory 
of  a  Lost  Love.'  Beside  it  are  little  tear-watered,  faded 
bunches  of  violets  and  bouquets  of  withered  rose-buds,  with 
the  old  blue  ribbon  still  around  them. 

"  Many  a  noble  gifted  man  walks  his  solitary  life  way, 
called  by  the  world  heartless,  insensible,  old  bachelor,  yet 
within  his  heart,  torn  down  or  vailed,  is  a  womanly  shrine, 
where  once,  when  skies  were  bluest  and  life's  flowers  so 
fair,  he  daily  brought  offerings  of  the  sweet  flowers  of  af 
fection. 

"  There  are  many  marriages  without  love,  and  many  a 
sweet  sad  love  story,  that  never  ends  in  marriage." 

Carleyn  awakes  and  lays  away  his  little  book,  as  he  re 
peats  over  and  over  to  himself  these  lines— 


196  NEPENTHE. 


If  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 

Then  some  one  else  may  have  much  to  fear, 
But  if  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 

Then  I  should  be  to  myself  more  ck-ar." 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

A    BIT   OF    PHILOSOPHY    ABOUT    HUSBANDS. 

"  Storms,  thunders,  waves ! 
Howl,  crash  and  bellow  till  you  get  your  fill ; 
Ye  sometimes  rest ;  men  never  can  be  still 

But  in  their  graves." 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

"You  are  weak,  Florence,  weak,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott. 
"  You  do  not  show  your  usual  strength  of  character  ;  this  Ne 
penthe  is  certainly  no  rival  of  yours — I  have  never  seen  you 
so  much  excited  ;  it  really  detracts  from  your  beauty,  and 
makes  you  appear  unamiable." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  amiable,''  said  Florence,  haughtily 
rising  up  to  her  full  height.  "  No  man  will  marry  me  or 
fancy  me  for  my  amiability.  I  don't  like  amiable  people — 
stupid  people  are  always  amiable.  Nepenthe  Stuart's  at 
tractions  in  no  way  compare  with  mine.  In  birth,  position, 
education,  she  is  vastly  my  inferior  ;  but  gifted  distinguished 
men  are  every  day  fastening  themselves  by  some  strange 
freak  of  fancy  to  unpretending  ordinary  little  women.  May 
it  not  be  possible  for  an  enthusiastic  young  artist  to  take 
some  such  freak  of  the  head  or  the  heart,  and  marry  unsuit 
ably  or  rashly. 

"  Some  men  like  to  have  all  the  genius  and  attractions  to 
themselves.  I  can  imagine  a  plain  woman  loving  her  dis 
tinguished  husband  with  a  kind  of  worshipful,  grateful  love. 
Some  things  beside  beauty  may  excite  temporary  interest. 
An  artful  woman  may  captivate  a  man,  and  if  once  loved,  she 
will  soon  look  beautiful  in  his  eyes.  Many  a  man  is  thus 
taken  in.  Any  good-looking  woman  with  winning  voice  and 
manners,  if  artistically  dressed,  will  at  times  look  interest 
ing.  And  once  caught,  a  man  hopes,  believes,  and  endures 
all. 

"  Wise  men  have  such  foolish  wives — profound  men  gefc 
shallow  and  stupid  companions. 


NEPENTHE.  197 

"  If  many  a  man  had  walked  out  blindfolded  and  married 
the  first  woman  he  met,  he  might  have  done  better.  There 
is  said  to  be  a  place  made  for  each  person  to  fill  ;  if  a  few 
get  into  the  wrong  places,  what  is  to  become  of  the  rest  ? 
There  must  be  an  odd  kind  of  pairing  off  if  the  leading  ones 
are  mismatched,  yet  I  have  always  thought  Frank  Carleyn 
would  want  not  only  a  beautiful  wife,  but  an  uncommonly 
beautiful  one." 

'•  These  geniuses  are  not  the  most  desirable  of  husbands, 
Florence.  They're  restless,  abstracted,  peculiar,  and  they 
don't  make  practical  husbands.  They'll  buy  meat  all  fat  or 
all  bone,  and  pay  twice  as  much  as  any  one  else  for  it. 
They'll  forget  all  kinds  of  household  matters — they  know 
nothing  of  practical  financiering.  If  they  earn  money,  some 
how  they  never  get  rich." 

"  I  could  manage  all  that,"  said  Florence.  "  I  would 
rather  have  a  husband  that  couldn't  tell  beef  from  mutton, 
than  one  who  would  be  sending  roast  meat  from  the  table 
because  not  brown  enough  or  too  brown  to  suit  his  lordship, 
— or  indignantly  reject  a  griddle  cake  because  its  circum 
ference  was  not  an  exact  circle  ;  or  one  who  is  always  giving 
essays  about  the  right  way  of  making  coffee,  bread,  sauces 
and  gravies.  Marry  the  best  man,  and  you'll  soon  find  he 
has  some  queer  little  kinks,  some  eccentric  oddity.  It  may 
be  he  can't  eat  anything  spiced  with  nutmeg,  or  sweetened 
with  molasses,  or  flavored  with  cinnamon, — and  then  he 
talks  so  glowingly  of  the  way  his  mother  used  to  make  pies 
— fat  pies,  he  calls  them — and  that  apple  sauce,  if  you  could 
only  make  some  like  that.  He  always  thinks  his  mother 
used  to  fix  up  things  in  some  wonderful  way,  a  little  better 
than  any  other  woman  can.  Put  the  same  dishes  on  the 
table  now,  and  they  wouldn't  taste  the  same. 

"  A  man  forgets  that  boyish  play,  chasing  ball,  hoop  and 
horse,  give  marvellous  appetite,  and  the  tired  hungry  boy 
likes,  as  he  can  never  like  again,  mother's  dinners,  soups 
and  sauces. 

"  Those  old  green  hills,  that  bordered  the  valley,  where 
nestled  his  childhood's  home  were  lofty  mouutains  to  his  boy 
ish  eyes-1 — are  only  little  hills  now  ;  so  the  virtue  of  those  rare 
dishes  so  marvellously  good  was  heightened  by  boyish 
exercise  and  boyish  fancy. 

"  But  it  isn't  the  eating  part  that  makes  all  the  trouble. 


198  NEPENTHE. 

— There's  the  washing.  I've  heard  on  good  authority,  that 
a  respectable  gentleman  actually  jerked  off  and  threw  on  the 
floor,  in  a  paroxysm  of  anger,  his  standing  Collar,  forsooth 
because  it  was  not  starched  stiff  enough  to  suit  his  lordship  ; 
and  so  a  man  who  will  boldly  face  advancing  armies,  or 
coolly  reply  to  an  insulting  antagonist,  will  be  conquered 
and  fretted  by  one  little  collar,  dust  on  his  overcoat,  a 
speck  or  a  wrinkle  on  his  shirt  bosom  ;  but  if  the  sh'irt  don't 
fit,  0  what  a  calamity — and  when  will  a  man  own  that  a  home 
made  shirt  ever  does  fit  1 

"  They  used  to  ruffle  the  shirts,  but  now,  one  would  think 
to  hear  them  talk,  that  the  shirts  ruffled  the  men — if 
it  don't  fit,  if  there's  a  wrinkle  in  the  bosom,  or  it  draws 
on  the  shoulder,  if  there's  a  twist  in  the  sleeve — the  button 
holes  are  a  mile  too  big,  or  they're  so  small  he  takes  his  pen 
knife  and  cuts  away  at  them,  the  neck  band  is  made  so  tight, 
and  awkward,  he'll  get  the  bronchitis,  he's  had  trouble  with 
his  throat  these  two  years,  because  of  these  awkward  shirts, 
and  so  he'll  fret  and  fume  and  fuss  and  give  each  morning 
an  elaborate  dissertation  on  all  the  manifold  benefits  of  good 
shirt  making  :  if  he  had  time  and  materials,  couldn't  he  make 
a  shirt  that  would  fit — it  only  needs  a  little  common  sense — 
'tis  easy  enough  to  see  where  the  trouble  is. 

"  A  woman  wilP often  bear  a  little  annoyance  better  than 
a  man  ;  a  man  will  use  such  strong  adjectives  for  weak  ideas, 
such  large  words  for  small  occasions.  Most  every  man  has 
some  expletive,  with  which  his  impatience  effervesces, 
George,  Harry,  Thunder,  Mars,  Good  Heavens  !  The  man 
scolds  his  wife,  and  always  calls  it  making  suggestions.  If  she 
cries,  she  make  demonstrations  if — he  threaten  to  skin  or 
thrash  his  child,  impetuously  shaking  him,  as  if  good  could 
be  shaken  in  or  evil  be  shaken  out,  he  calls  it  '  salutary 
discipline.' 

"  Talk  of  a  woman's  being  nervous  when  sick.  Why  if  a 
man  has  a  headache,  it  is  intolerable.  How  he  groans  !  If 
he  has  a  little  fever  he  is  '  burning  up.'  If  he  has  a  cold 
he  thinks  he  is  '  seriously  ill.'  If  called  up  once  in  the 
night,  or  awake  half  an  hour,  why  he  is  rubbing  his  eyes, 
and  '  broke  of  his  rest,'  for  a  week  afterwards.  If  a  little 
ill,  how  very  blue,  uncomfortable  and  worried  he  will  feel. 
But  Frank  Carleyn  is  no  such  fussy,  fidgetty,  man  ;  he  would 
be  reasonable,  and  too  much  absorbed  in  his  profession,  to 


NEPENTHE.  199 

make  an  idol  of  his  dinner  or  a  pet  of  his  constitution 
— I  don't  believe  he'd  know  or  find  fault,  if  you'd  set  nails 
before  him  for  breakfast,  but  I  don't  care  what  he  does,  or  is. 
I  don't  want  to  analyze  his  habits  or  nature.  I  love  him." 

"I  think  you  will  find,  Florence,  that  if  a  man  does  poetize 
and  philosophize  or  paint  ideals,  he'll  know  when  beef  is 
well  done,  and  beefsteak  nicely  broiled  ;  and  the  best  of  men 
may  make  a  wry  face  at  insipid  coffee  and  tough  sirloin.  A 
hungry  husband  must  be  fed  before  he  is  caressed,  enter 
tained  or  charmed." 

Nepenthe  Stuart  came  in  just  then,  so  they  continued 
their  conversation  in  French,  supposing  of  course  she  was 
ignorant  of  the  French  language. 

"  I  will  not  be  cut  out  by  that  low-born,  low-bred  girl.  I 
have  never  failed  in  anything  I  have  undertaken,"  said  Flo 
rence,  in  an  angry  tone. 

"  Don't  get  so  excited,  Florence,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott ;  "  we'll 
have  her  married  yet.  I  have  praised  her  up  to  the  skies 
to  Mr.  Nicholson,  and  she  may  well  be  thankful  if  she  can 
get  such  a  husband.  It  is  a  better  fate  than  she  deserves 
to  have  an  offer  from  a  man  of  his  great  wealth  and  acknow 
ledged  position.  It  might  make  her  proud  and  overbearing 
to  be  placed  in  such  an  elevated  station.  It  will  no  doubt 
elate  her  exceedingly,  to  receive  proposals  from  such  a  man, 
he  is  really  a  great  catch  for  any  girl.  He  is  very  hand 
some,  immensely  rich,  and  growing  richer  all  the  time." 

"  My  name  shall  be  Florence  Carleyn,  or  Florence  Elliott 
till  I  die,"  said  Florence  ;  "  and  I  will  crush  every  obstacle 
that  comes  in  my  path,  as  I  crush  this  fly,"  said  she,  as  she 
pressed  her  hand  on  a  little  fly  on  the  window  sill  in  front 
of  her  ;  "  but  we  must  take  care  that  Nepenthe  does  not 
find  out  about  that  legacy.  It  would  make  her  feel  so  inde 
pendent  of  us  and  rich  husbands  too.  I  hope  she'll  know 
nothing  of  Mr.  Nicholson's  hereditary  insanity.  Neither  of 
his  brothers  lived  to  be  forty  without  being  insane,  and  I 
have  heard  it  confidentially  stated  that  his  family  physician 
says  he  will  certainly  be  insane  before  he  dies,  and  he  may 
be  at  any  time.  I  really  think  he  acts  a  little  queer  now, 
occasionally.  Why  once  he  brought  me  a  rare  boquet  of 
heliotropes,  japonicas,  and  tuberoses,  with  a  small  sunflower 
in  the  centre.  It  looked  so  queer,  and  about  as  suitable  as 
one  of  those  hod-carriers  would,  dancing  at  my  next  recep- 


200  NEPENTHE. 

tion  in  his  working  costume.  It  is  the  only  queer  thing  I 
ever  saw  in  Mr.  Nicholson — but  sometimes  there's  a  strange 
wild  light  in  his  eye.  Of  coarse  Nepenthe,  penniless  and 
dependent,  will  be  glad  and  thankful  for  his  attentions,  but 
yet  she  has  a  will  of  her  own,  and  I  will  crush  it  if  I  can. 
I  have  shown  her  in  every  possible  way  that  her  presence 
in  the  evening  in  the  parlor  is  disagreeable  to  me.  She 
shall  marry  Mr.  Nicholson.  I  never  willed  a  thing  but  I 
accomplished  it,  and  mother,  you  never  opposed  me.  You 
always  taught  me  that  I  might,  I  must  have  my  way." 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 

NEPENTHE    WRITES. 

What  radiant  visions  glorious  lie 
Like  sunset  clouds,  piled  mountain  high ; 
O'er  thought's  great  shore  sublimely  roll 
The  surging  billows  of  the  soul. 

On  mem'ry's  far-receding  strand, 
Are  shells  and  pearls  and  sparkling  sand  ; 
Hope's  fading  sunset  stains  with  gold 
The  oriel  windows  of  the  soul. 

NEPENTHE  said  nothing  to  any  one  of  those  long  days  and 
lonely  evenings,  when  to  avoid  intruding  her  presence  and 
society  upon  the  haughty  Florence,  she  secluded  herself  in 
her  room,  writing,  by  herself,  early  in  the  morning,  and  late 
in  the  evening. 

With  no  home,  lover,  friend,  she  created  ideal  homes, 
lovers,  friends.  When  her  aching  heart  was  loneliest,  hour 
after  hour  she  talked  on  paper  with  these  noiseless,  invisible 
friends.  Rapidly  the  pages  increased,  as  the  plot  sketched 
and  acted  out  in  dream-land  was  written  out  in  her  manu 
script.  As  her  thoughts  came  fast  and  warm,  rising  in 
misty  tears,  or  falling  in  radiant  pearls  along  the  shore  of 
her  spirit  or  washed  up  from  the  great  gulf  of  the  past, 
there  were  none  to  gather  and  polish  and  prize  them,  till  at 
last,  in  the  sunshine  of  her  spirit,  on  the  white  surface  of 
her  manuscript,  through  the  double  convex-glass  of  her  ex 
perience,  the  camera  obscura  of  the  darkened  chamber  of 


NEPENTHE.  201 

her  soul  exhibited  distinctly  in  their  native  colors  the  images 
of  her  beautiful  thoughts.  The  noblest  and  dearest  of  her 
ideal  heroes,  turn  the  glass  of  her  soul  as  she  would,  would 
take  the  shape  and  form,  the  beauty  and  expression  of  Frank 
Carleyn.  When  he  first  looked  upon  the  pure  surface  of 
her  heart,  his  image  was  fixed,  photographed  there  forever  ; 
and  every  after  manly  impression  struck  off  from  the  leaves 
of  her  soul  into  the  leaves  of  her  manuscript,  would  have 
the  look  of  that  first  impression,  exposed  to  the  vapor  of 
tears,  or  to  joy's  feverish  heat — the  image  was  always  ap 
pearing,  as  if  by  enchantment. 

She  wrote  to  occupy  busy  thoughts — give  vent  to  over 
charged  feelings,  and  forget  unshared  sorrows.  As  pago 
after  page  grew  under  her  hand,  she  never  thought  it  might 
be  a  book  at  last.  She  had  a  hope  that  some  eye  might  at 
some  time  read  the  unpretending  manuscript,  and  if  dawn 
came  at  last,  she  herself  might  read  over  its  chapters  of 
sorrow,  and  add  with  sunshine  gilding  the  hills  of  her  life, 
the  concluding^m's. 

She  never  thought  who  would  publish,  sell  or  buy  it — 
with  her  it  was  only  a  manuscript.  She  thought  not  of  shel 
tering  it  under  the  adorned  and  gilded  cover  of  a  book.  She 
had  never  known  or  dreamed  or  heard  of  one  prophetic 
glance  of  that  influential  and  powerful  individual,  the  pub 
lisher's  reader,  who  sits  in  his  sovereign  chair,  repeating 
his  favorite  phrase,  "  'Tis  very  well  written,  but  not  the 
class  of  works  we  publish — we  want  something  more  thrill 
ing  ;"  as  with  one  wave  of  his  powerful  hand  he  banishes 
into  the  dark  realm  of  hopeless  oblivion  many  a  manuscript 
freighted  with  winged  hopes  and  glorious  dreams  of  fame's 
golden  heights  and  immortal  laurels  ; — but  she  wrote  on, 
as  the  sea  asks  no  echo  to  its  moanings  from  the  cold  shore, 
the  stars  hope  for  no  thanks  from  the  gloomy  night,  and  the 
flower  seeks  no  reward  from  the  crushing  hand. 

By  accident,  she  became  acquainted  one  day  with   a  wise, 

kind,  polite  old  gentleman,  Professor  J ,  a  German,  a 

thorough  classic  and  an  accomplished  Oriental  scholar,  an 
extensive  traveller,  an  excellent  linguist,  and  a  scientific 
naturalist.  He  came  to  see  her,  and  entertained  and 
charmed  some  of  her  loneliest,  hours.  One  day  he  showed 
her  his  large  and  rare  herbarium,  in  which  he  had  pre 
served  flowers,  leaves  and  bulbs,  which  he  had  gathered  in 


202  NEPENTHE. 

Germany,  France,  Italy,  Prussia,  Poland,  and  some  at  the 
Crimea,  Caucasus,  and  at  Teflis. 

He  preserved  the  bulbs  in  his  herbarium,  just  as  he  had 
found  them,  all  but  one,  which  he  found  in  Teflis  and 
which  he  cut  open  with  a  sharp  knife  and  applied  a  hot  iron 
to  the  inner  surface  of  each  part. 

Four  years  after,  when  in  St.  Petersburgh,  he  examined 
his  herbarium,  and  all  those  bulbs,  once  so  perfect  and 
symmetrical,  were  dried,  shrivelled,  musty  and  mouldy  ; 
while  from  the  parts  of  the  little  Teflis  bulb,  to  which  he 
had  applied  the  knife  and  the  iron,  little  fresh  leaves  were 
peeping  out.  Its  unscorched,  unharmed  peers,  were  mould 
ing  around  it  unblessed  by  no  green  resurrection,  while 
through  the  sharp  stab  and  the  burning  fire  it  had  unfolded 
its  germ  of  fragrant  beauty.  The  quiet  biding  of  the  blade 
and  the  iron,  like  patient  mortal  suffering,  had  wrought  out 
its  unfolding  glory. 

The  kind  old  gentleman  took  so  much  interest  in  Nepen 
the  that  he  told  her  some  anecdotes  about  his  interviews 
with  Lord  Byron  in  Venice  in  1815,  when  he  saw  him 
swim  four  miles  from  St.  Marc  to  Lido,  and  asked  him  if  he 
were  not  afraid  of  the  sharks  ? 

"  Oh  no !"  said  Lord  Byron,  as  he  was  stepping  into 
a  gondola,  "  I  am  a  fatalist — the  sharks  will  not  touch  me 
until  my  time  comes  to  die." 

The  professor  lent  Nepenthe  some  printed  accounts  of  his 
travels  to  read,  and  at  last  encouraged  her  to  show  him 
something  of  her  own. 

She  read  him  a  little  poem,  written  one  night  when  she 
was  alone  and  sad. 

He  sat  still  as  she  read,  and  at  last,  when  she  finished  it, 
he  broke  out  in  his  peculiar  foreign,  yet  eloquent  English  : 

"  Why,  Mademoiselle  Stuart !  With  what  high  and 
mighty  inspiration,  is  your  mind  endowed?  Your  thoughts, 
clear  and  beautiful,  flow  from  your  soul  like  a  river.  Men 
will  read  them  and  love  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear  of 
you." 

Poor  Nepenthe  was  unused  to  praise.  Nobody  praised, 
flattered,  complimented  her.  Sarcasm,  suspicion,  slight,  in 
sult  were  her  daily  food,  her  constant  companions.  But 
this  man  who  had  seen  kings  and  princes,  lived  at  courts, 
travelled  with  sages,  whose  intellect  towered  above  the 


NEPENTHE.  203 

crowd  around  her,  was  too  solemn,  grave,  dignified  to  flatter. 
His  words  inspired,  cheered,  thrilled,  moved  her.  They 
sounded  like  a  prophet's  voice,  speaking  out  from  the  sybil 
cave  of  destiny. 


Long  after  the  professor  had  gone,  Nepenthe  sat  thinking, 
and  these  were  her  thoughts.  "  There  are  hearts  in  the 
world  never  pierced,  never  bruised,  never  stabbed,  never 
scorched.  They  go  through  the  world  unscathed,  untouched,  ~ 
unblighted,  like  dry,  carefully  kept  bulbs  in  life's  herba 
rium.  But  as  years  pass,  they  shrink  and  shrivel  like  those 
unscathed,  unpierced  bulbs  in  the  professor's  herbarium, 
growing  older,  mustier,  and  mouldier,  never  unfolding  in 
fragrant  beauty  for  any  eye  ;  while  here  and  there  is  some 
lonely  heart  so  rent  by  the  sharp  knife  of  trouble,  so 
scorched  and  burned  by  sorrow's  hottest  furnace  iron,  that 
after  years  of  calamity's  heaviest  pressures  have  passed,  as 
you  open  the  leaves  of  life,  you'll  find  springing  oat  of  the 
broken,  burning  heart,  some  balmy  leaves  of  fragrant  sym 
pathy,  sweetly  perfuming  all  life's  surrounding  pages." 

" I  will  call  my  story  Dawn,"  thought  Nepenthe.  "It 
may  be  from  my  poor,  scorched,  stabbed,  burning,  longing 
heart,  it  may  come  forth  as  a  little  germ  unfolding  into 
beauty,  blooming  in  the  sunshine  and  dew  of  young,  bright 
eyes,  and  at  last  take  deep  and  abiding  root  in  the  world's 
heart." 

"  A  flower  of  hope — float  up  to  the  light, 
Its  whitened  umbels  gleam  through  the  night." 

"  Will  one  of  its  little  leaves,"  thought  she,  "  be  pre 
served  forever  in  Fame's  great  herbarium,  so  full  of  the  il 
lustrious  classes  and  noble  orders  of  soul-flowers." 

Nepenthe  sings  in  a  low  voice,  as  she  looks  out  that  night 
at  the  stars  : 

"  Up,  high  up  in  the  Poet's  mind 
The  Belfry  bells  are  ringing, 
The  bells  are  ever  swinging, 

Swinging  rhymes 

In  silver  chimes, 
Telling  or  past  or  future  times, 
But  ever  they  tell  of  the  golden  climes, 
Where,  fiver  the  bells  are  ringing." 


204  NEPENTHE. 


CHAPTEK    XXVI. 

CARLEYN'S  CONCEIT. 

"  Enfin  dans  le  cerveau  si  1'image  est  tracee, 
Comment  peut  dans  un  corps  s'imprimer  la  pens^e  ? 
La  finit  ton  oeuvre,  mortel  audacieux, 
Va  mesurer  la  terre,  interroger  les  cieux, 
De  1'immense  univers  regie  1'ordre  supreme, 
Mais  ne  pretends  jamais  te  connoitre  toimeme, 
La  s'ouvre  sous  tes  yeux  un  abime  sans  fonds." 

DE  LILLE,  L' IMAGINATION. 

"  THERE'S  one  thing  I  don't  like  about  that  Carleyn,"  said 
Miss  Charity  Gouge,  "  he  is  so  conceited." 

"  Conceited!'"  said  Kate  Howard.  "I  have  never  seen 
anything  conceited  in  him.  I  am  sure  his  manners  are  plain 
and  unpretending." 

"  Yes  ;  but  for  all  that,  Tie  is  conceited.  He  knows  he  is 
a  genius,  and  when  a  man  knows  that,  it  spoils  him.  If 
you  should  ask  him  pat  and  plump  if  he  didn't  think  he 
could  paint  beautiful  portraits,  he'd  say,  '  Yes,  I  know  I  can.' 
I  believe  in  not  letting  '  the  left  hand  know  what  the  right 
hand  doeth.'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Kate  ;  "  but  the  right  hand  need  not  forget  its 
cunning.  Don't  the  yoetfeel  that  he  is  a  poet  ?  Don't  he 
feel  the  waves  of  emotion  dashing  on  the  shore  of  thought  ? 
As  his  swelling  soul  careers  over  the  ocean  of  beauty,  does 
he  not  first  catch  the  murmurs  of  liquid  melody  and  first  see 
the  pearls  beneath  ?  As  he  grasps  the  floating  images  of 
fragrant  thought,  and  carves  them  into  lyric  forms,  may  he 
not  value  best  their  worth  and  cost  ?  If  Pythagoras  first 
found  the  proportions  of  musical  notes  from  the  sounds  of 
hammers  upon  an  anvil,  each  true  poet  knows  the  proportion 
of  his  exquisite  melodies,  as  he  catches  the  echo  of  the  ham 
mer  of  thought  as  it  strikes  the  anvil  of  his  sounding  soul. 
On  the  walls  of  Carleyn's  soul  were  stained,  at  its  earliest 
creation,  beautiful  pictures.  Long  toiling  through  gathering 
thoughts  and  misty  fancies,  he  has  at  last  brushed  away  the 
dust  of  years,  and  with  clear  eye  and  cunning  hand,  repro 
duced  these  inborn  images.  After  exploring  these  won- 


NEPENTHE.  205 

drous  tracings  and  shadings,  may  he  not  modestly  say,  '  I 
have  toiled,  and  brushed,  and  polished,  and  found  at  last 
this  beautiful  picture  in  my  soul  ?'  ' 

"  I  hate  this  bragging,"  said  Miss  Charity.  "  Let  an 
other  man  praise  thee,  and  not  thine  own  lips  ;  a  stranger, 
and  not  thine  own  mouth.  Seest  thou  a  man  wise  in  his 
own  conceit,  there  is  more  hope  of  a  fool  than  of  him." 

"  We  give  the  miner  credit  for  his  golden  findings,"  said 
Kate,  "  yet  he  who  toils  on  alone,  and  strikes  at  last  a  vein 
of  golden  thought,  as  he  catches  its  first  sparkle  and  sees  its 
earliest  glow,  can't  he  best  weigh  the  hard-earned  treasure  ; 
if  he  coins  rare  images  from  the  mint  of  thought,  can't  he 
have  sense  enough  to  see  the  stamp  and  know  the  value  ? 
In  the  tower  of  each  great  soul  is  a  mint  for  the  coining  of 
thought,  vested  with  the  royal  prerogative  of  stamping  its 
own  coin  with  name  and  value.  The  soul's  coronation  time 
is  when  through  its  dim  chaos  of  doubt  it  first  cries  out  to 
its  new-orbed  thought,  it  is  my  own,  and  it  is  good — then 
God  puts  the  laurel  crown  on  the  worshipping  soul  as  it 
kneels  in  its  inner  court.  Applause  may  or  may  not  come 
afterwards  from  the  outer  court  of  the  great  congregation 
of  thought  worshippers. 

This  first  joy  flush  is  never  vain,  but  tearful  and  meek  in 
its  triumph — in  every  giant  soul's  causeway  is  a  basaltic 
touchstone,  on  which  each  pure  thought  leaves  its  genuine 
mark ;  and  these  crusty  jealous  people  who  are  always  find 
ing  out  and  testing  a  great  man's  conceit — I  always  call  them 
not  touch-needles  but  touchy-needles.  If  I  were  a  man  I'd 
write  one  lecture  about  this  conceit.  I'd  write  it  and  deliver 
it  too — if  I  had  to  pay  myself  a  hundred  dollars  for  the 
privilege.  There  hardly  lives  a  great  and  gifted  man  who 
is  not  called  conceited.  As  for  me  I  have  always  found  the 
greatest  fools  and  dunces  displaying  the  most  unbearable 
self-conceit." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Charity  in  a  spirited  tone,  "  Carleyn  has 
great  ideas  of  what  he  can  do,  it  don't  take  a  person  of  any 
sagacity  long  to  find  that  out,  and  true  modesty,"  she  added 
triumphantly,  "  is  an  element  of  true  greatness — it  is  a  great 
charm  this  perfect  unconsciousness  ;  and  I  never  can  admire 
a  great  man  without  it.  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the 
world,  and  I  know  I  am  correct." 

"  I  haven't  been  as  long  in  the  world  as  you,  Miss  Charity,'' 


206  NEPENTHE. 

said  Kate,  "  yet  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  this  perfect 
unconsciousness,  but  I  have  never  seen  it.  I  have  read  in 
novels  of  radiantly  beautiful  women,  who  never  knew  they 
looked  well,  and  irresistibly  fascinating  men,  who  uncon 
sciously  captivated  every  body,  because  they  couldn't  help  it, 
but  I  don't  meet  any  such  men  and  women  walking  about. 
It  is  quite  difficult  for  a  person  who  owns  a  good  J6oking- 
glass,  and  a  good  pair  of  ears,  not  to  see  and  to  hear  about  it, 
if  he  is  handsome.  We  Americans  must  make  such  a  fuss 
about  every  thing,  fences  and  barns,  and  cars  and  curb-stones, 
book  covers,  medals  and  fans,  even  wagons  and  wayside  rocks 
are  plastered  over  with  advertisements,  of  something 
new  and  wonderful.  There's  somebody's  name  on  every 
thing.  The  chief  aim  of  the  people  is  to  get  their  name  up. 
Our  almanacs — guides  to  infallible  weather  decisions,  must 
be  labelled  '  guides  to  health  ' — which  means  a  guide  to 
some  polychrestian  physician,  who  cures  every  thing  with 
some  universal  life  invigorator.  I  don't  despair  yet  of  see 
ing  some  of  the  pure  energy  of  vital  action  done  up  and  for 
sale  in  boxes  of  salve,  rolls  of  plaster,  and  bottles  of  lotion 
warranted  to  be  made  from  a  powdered  philospher's  stone, 
of  purely  vegetable  origin,  by  a  perpetually  moving  machine, 
circulating  among  all  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe. 
Every  thing  is  used  as  an  advertising  medium,  but  the 
sky  over  our  heads — there  are  no  caricatures  up  there  yet 
— but  if  a  balloon  ever  could  get  up  so  high  some  enter 
prising  medicine  vender  would  be  for  sending  one  of  his 
posters  up  there,  to  fasten  notices  on  some  starry  promon 
tory,  or  suburban  gates  of  some  constellated  city,  to  intro 
duce  among  the  bulls  and  bears  of  those  shining  streets,  his 
valuable  speculation,  and  benefit  those  upper  circles  by  his 
philanthropic  lotions,  seeing  that  his  sands  of  life  have  nearly 
run  out. 

"  If  a  man  praise  any  article  to  me,   I  begin   to   suspect 
that  he  has  some  of  it  in  his  pocket  to  sell. 

"  Once  upon  a  time  somebody  gave  me  a  whole  bottle  of 
Tricopherous,  for  which  liberal  gift  I  could  see  no  occasion  ; 
but  some  time  thereafter  the  donor  came  round  again  wish 
ing  me  to  give  my  name  to  be  inscribed  on  the  outside  of 
each  bottle  of  Tricopherous  in  testimony  of  its  virtues.  I 
laughed  till  I  cried  at  the  thought  of  it- — Kate  Howard  go 
ing  round  on  a  Tricopherous  bottle  !  I  never  wish  to  see 


NEPENTHE.  207 

my  name  in  print  till  I  am  married.  But  I  do  say  that  a 
well  conceived  and  carefully  polished  thought  deserves  the 
acknowledgment  of  its  original  stamp  far  more  than  those 
bottles  of  nondescript  perfume  marked  Parisienne,  adoptee 
par  le  monde  elegant.  13  Rue  D'Enghier.  13,  Paris,  with 
white  kid  caps  and  fancy  ribbon  neck-ties,  marked  some 
times  '  Bouquet  de  Caroline,'  they  might  better  be  '  Bouquet 
de  Jonathan,'  or  '  Pomade  de  Sallie,'  for  they  have  no  mem 
ories  of  Outre  Mer — and  those  sheets  of  cream-laid  note  pa 
per,  with  '  Paris  '  carefully  stamped  in  one  corner,  have 
no  gay  Parisian  associations,  but  authentic  memories  of  their 
native  American  rags.  I  have  often  wondered,  as  our  Brid 
get  says,  how  they  can  put  such  a  deceitful  countenance  on 
their  fair  faces  ;  and  even  a  gentleman,  in  the  estimation  of 
many  ladies,  is  not  half  finished  or  polished,  or  worth  hav 
ing,  unless  he  has  been  to  Europe,  and  come  back  with  Paris 
marked  all  over  him — boots,  hat,  gloves  and  all — he  must 
eat,  sleep,  walk,  talk,  dress,  and  bow  a  la  Francaise,  and 
dance  well  '  les  Landers.' 

"  I  am  glad  there  is  something  can  circulate,  even  in 
fashionable  society,  without  full  dress,  white  kids,  and 
French  manners — and  that  is.^a  plain  drab-covered  book  or 
a  poem.  And  no  bars  or  bolts,  or  conventionalities  shall 
keep  plain  Jane  Eyre  from  telling  her  thrilling  tale  of 
Thornfield  Hall,  in  stateliest  mansion,  to  princely  ears.  You 
might  as  well  put  gloves  and  slippers  on  a  canary,  advertise 
a  violet,  recommend  a  mignionette,  or  puff  a  star  through 
the  market,  as  try  to  puff  a  genuine  thought  through  the 
world.  A  star  will  shine — and  a  bright  thought  will  burn 
and  shine  somewhere,  if  only  in  one  dark  heart ;  that  is  a 
glorious  destiny,  for  when  the  heart  beats  up  there,  the 
thought  goes  with  it.  Each  great  thought,  as  it  comes  from 
the  press  of  the  soul,  has  an  imported  stamp — not  of  gay 
Paris  ;  but  on  each  noble  thought  is  imprinted  in  legible 
type  the  stamp,  HEAVEN  ;  for  every  such  good  and  perfect 
gift  cometh  down  from  the  Father  of  Light,  from  the  city 
beyond  the  sea  of  stars.  It  is  a  pity  we  couldn't  get  more 
of  the  patterns  of  our  thoughts  from  the  royal  family 
above. 

"  But  don't  you  want  a  moral  to  all  this  rhodomontade  ? 
It  is  this.  If  a  man's  name  can  be  appropriately  attached  to 


208  NEPENTHE. 

everything,  from  a  tin  pan  to  a  telescope,  he  can  make  a 
good  picture,  and  know  it,  without  being  called  conceited." 

"  Well,"  said  Charity,  "  I'll  never  change  the  good  name 
of  Gouge  till  I  find  a  man  without  any  conceit  in  him." 

"  You'll  have  to  hunt  a  while,  Charity,"  said  Kate,  "  be 
fore  you  find  such  a  wise  fool  and  brilliant  dunce.  You 
might  as  well  expect  to  find  the  opposite  magnetic  poles  of 
human  nature  at  the  same  end  of  the  life  battery — and  if 
you  could  find  such  a  rare  bird,  he'd  have  to  take  your  name 
— for  the  best  part  of  him  would  be  Gouged  out  of  him. 

"  I  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for  a  man  unless  he  thought  he 
could  do  something.  A  man  can  never  accomplish  anything 
until  he  feels  there  is  something  in  him  to  begin  with. 
Don't  you  suppose,  Charity,  that  if  a  rock  had  a  soul,  it 
would  know  that  it  was  a  rock  ?  if  a  star  could  think, 
wouldn't  it  know  that  it  was  a  star  ?  if  a  flower  could  feel, 
wouldn't  it  be  conscious  that  it  was  a  flower  ? — and  every 
granite  truth,  starry  thought,  and  flowery  fancy,  sees  its 
faithful  shadow  in  the  reflecting  fountain  of  its  native  soul. 
But  here  endeth  my  first  lesson,  for  there  comes  Fred,  and 
I  always  hide  away  my  metaphysical  patchbag  when  he's 
around,  for  he  is  a  most  unmerciful  tease.  He  says  no  lady 
ever  can  carry  on  an  argument  in  a  logical  manner  :  that 
they  plunge  right  into  a  subject,  and  can't  hold  their  breath 
long  enough  to  get  the  pearls  at  the  bottom  :  that  the  best 
of  us  are  superficial,  and  never  canvass  both  sides  of  a  ques 
tion,  and  half  the  time  when  we  talk  we  don't  know  what  we 
are  driving  at,  and  the  best  of  our  opinions  are  only  echoes 
of  our  lover's,  husband's,  or  brother's  thoughts  ;  that  we 
are  very  good  in  our  way — that  means,  I  suppose,  that  like 
birds  in  the  air  or  fishes  in  the  water,  there's  only  one  ele 
ment  adapted  to  our  simple  nature,  and  that  is  the  domestic 
element. 

"  I  wonder  what  we  have  eyes  for,  and  what  we  have 
souls  for,  if  we  are  to  be  cooped  up  in  one  set  of  cages,  and 
never  peek  through  or  wander  out,  to  see  what  is  going  on 
outside.  For  my  part  I  like,  to  climb  the  spiritual  fence, 
and  see  a  few  of  the  stars  and  smell  a  few  of  the  flowers  of 
truth,  where  man's  free  spirit  is  pasturing  at  large  oil  the 
wide  field  of  thought,  and  daily  growing  grander  and  might 
ier.  1  get  tired  of  thinking  over  the  same  old  thoughts  and 
eating  the  corn  meal  of  common  sense,  and  forever  dwelling 


NEPENTHE.  209 

on  the  highly  recommended  yet  stale  subject  of  good  house 
keeping.  To  coop  us  in,  and  bar  us  out  of  the  beautiful 
thought  world,  is  compelling  us  to  live  on  bran  bread,  while 
man  feasts  on  angels'  food  and  fathoms  angels'  themes." 

Miss  Charity  yawned  heavily,  and  then  taking  out  her 
watch,  exclaimed, 

"  Why,  it  is  nearly  four  o'clock.  I  ought  to  be  at  the 
meeting  of  the  managers  this  very  moment,  and  they  can't 
do  anything  without  me." 

As  she  went  up  to  her  room,  Kate  couldn't  help  saying  to 
herself, 

"  When  Charity  talks  about  conceit,  she'd  better  begin  at 
home." 


CHAPTER    XXYIL 


LOVE,    JEALOUSY,    AND    RIVALRY. 

"  I  want  a  steward,  butler,  cooks  ; 
A  coachman,  footman,  grooms  ; 

A  library  of  well-bound  books, 
And  picture-garnished  rooms ; 

Corregios,  Magdalen,  and  Night, 
The  matron  of  the  chair, 

Guido's  fleet  Coursers  in  their  flight. 
And  Claudes,  at  least  a  pair." — JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 

"  Les  hommes  seront  toujours  ce  qu'il  plaisa  aux  femmes." 

KOUSSEAU. 

As  Florence  went  out  of  the  room — rt  Yes,"  said  Mrs. 
Elliott,  rocking  back  and  forth  in  her  drawing-room,  "  any 
woman  not  engaged,  and  not  in  love  with  some  other  man, 
can  be  obtained  by  any  intelligent,  good-looking  man,  if  he 
have  the  right  tact,  address  and  perseverance,  and  is  doing 
well  in  business.  \Most  women  know  a  dozen  such  they 
would  accept,  if  they  would  offer  themselves  judiciously  and 
romantically,  by  moonlight,  or  out  by  some  grove.  Florence 
and  Carleyn  may  make  a  match  yet,  if  she  is  prudent  and 
cautious,  and  don't  flirt  with  too  many  others.  Carleyn  is 
no  flirt. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  up  a  flirtation  with  somebody  ?"  said 
she  to  Nepenthe,  as  she  came  in  with  her  netting. 

"  I  don't  know  how,"   said  Nepenthe,  quietly,   "  and  if  I 


210  NEPENTHE. 

did,  I  wouldn't  like  to  win  or  encourage  the  advances  of  a 
man  I  would  not  marry.  I  think  these  endearing  expres 
sions,  coaxing  tones,  and  languishing  attitudes  wrong,  and 
very  unpleasant  in  the  recollection.  I  would  rather  have 
the  love  of  one  true-hearted  man  than  see  a  dozen  mous- 
tached  and  worshipful  Apollos  sighing  at  my  feet.  I  would 
rather  have  only  the  one  offer  from  the  man  I  might  marry 
than  feel  the  pain  of  rejecting  a  hundred  I  could  not  accept. 
If  a  man  really  loves  a  woman,  it  must  give  her  pain  to  say 
to  him,  No — and  be  a  matter  of  regret  to  her  afterwards  " 

"  Very  well  got  up  sentences,"  said  Florence,  coming  in 
just  then,  "  and  quite  heroic.  Talk  about  giving  gentlemen 
pain,  and  breaking  their  hearts.  Pshaw !  Men's  hearts 
don't  break !  Most  any  of  them  think  they  can  have  any 
woman  for  the  asking — they  are  so  full  of  conceit,  they  re 
ally  believe  that  ladies  will  say,  '  Yes  sir,  and  thank  you, 
too  !'  I  like  to  take  some  of  the  conceit  out  of  them.  Yes, 
I  enjoy  it.  I'd  like  the  pleasure  of  refusing  most  all  of 
thorn.  Look  at  those  young  widowers,  who  have  so  adored 
their  wives  while  living.  They'll  many  of  them  marry  in  a 
little  less  than  a  year,  some  of  them  in  even  six  months  ; 
and  if  they  marry  then,  they  must  allow  some  time  previous 
for  the  preliminary  love-making,  engagement,  &c.  Who 
knows  how  soon  they  do  think  of  it  ?  Do  you  remember 
what  Mr.  Hollow  said,  when  somebody  asked  him  why  he 
married  six  months  after  his  wife  died  ?  He  said  he  should 
not  wear  mourning  for  her  so  long  as  for  a  brother  or  sister, 
because  she  was  no  blood  relation.  But,"  she  added,  chang 
ing  her  tone,  "  when  we  see  you  playing  the  agreeable  to  a 
gentleman,  sitting  chatting  so  absorbed  in  the  corner,  we'll 
know  you  are  in  earnest." 

"  I  would  often  rather  talk  with  a  gentleman  than  a  lady," 
said  Nepenthe,  not  noticing  the  insinuation  implied  in  Flo 
rence's  remark.  "  It  is  more  natural  for  a  lady  to  confide 
in  some  intelligent  man,  than  in  some  other  woman.  Gen 
tlemen  pay  more  respectful  attention.  As  they  are  out  more 
in  the  world,  if  they  are  well  informed,  they  give  informa 
tion  on  certain  subjects  with  which  we  haven't  the  same  op 
portunity  to  be  familiar.  Their  minds  are  not  as  apt  to  be 
absorbed  with  the  details  of  trifles,  and  for  my  part  I  think 
most  of  the  agreeable  men  are  married  men." 

"  But  you  certainly  wouldn't  talk  sense  in  society.     It  is 


NEPENTHE.  211 

neither  customary  nor  in  good  taste,"  said  Florence.  "  You 
don't  go  into  society  to  get  or  give  information.  There  are 
lectures,  libraries,  churches  enough  to  enlighten  us.  We 
go  into  society  to  be  amused.  During  the  whole  of  the 
fashionable  sociables  I  attended  last  winter,  vve  danced 
every  evening  all  the  evening.  I  never  had  but  one  con 
versation  the  whole  winter,  and  that  was  with  a  gentleman 
from  Boston,  and  it  was  purely  accidental.  It  was  waltz, 
promenade  and  polka,  polka,  promenade  and  waltz,  all  win 
ter — and  this  is  society." 

"  All  do  not  go  into  society  with  the  same  motives,"  said 
Nepenthe,  coloring  slightly.  "Some  are  'lookers  on  in 
Venice.'  I  have  been  so  little  out  of  late,  my  ideas  of  soci 
ety  would  probably  be  outre.  I  hardly  know  what  is  cus 
tomary.  Whatever  is  the  tone  of  conversation,  ladies  often 
give  it  its  caste,  and  gentlemen,  while  with  them,  try  to 
talk  to  suit  them.  Gentlemen  really  like  to  give  informa 
tion.  Each  educated  man,  if  he  reads  much,  if  he  has  tra 
velled  far,  enjoys  thinking  and  talking,  on  some  one  subject 
more  than  another.  He  likes  to  talk  of  that  of  which  he 
likes  to  think.  I  believe  almost  everybody,  rich  or  poor, 
ignorant  or  educated,  knows  something,  from  facts,  observa 
tion,  or  experience,  of  which  many  others  are  ignorant.  The 
charm  of  conversation  is  not  so  much  in  talking  ourselves, 
and  displaying  our  own  powers,  as  to  get  others  to  talk,  to 
draw  upon  their  resources  of  knowledge,  I  can  usually  find, 
after  talking  a  little  with  a  gentleman,  what  he  likes  best, 
and  I  turn  the  conversation  in  that  direction.  He  may  be 
eloquent  on  that  subject,  though  perhaps  taciturn  on  every 
other.  If  a  man  thinks  he  is  really  imparting  information, 
he  will  be  natural  and  genial — he  will  like  you  better,  and 
really  think  you  more  agreeable,  though  you  only  ask  a  few 
questions,  and  are  a  patient  listener,  and  he  does  most  all 
the  talking." 

"There  is  more  in  the  way  and  manner  than  in  the  thought," 
said  Florence,  interrupting  her  ;  "  men  never  like  learned 
women  to  talk  with.  They  care  more  for  beauty,  ease  and 
style,  than  any  great  intellectual  power,  or  wise  conversa 
tion,  full  of  tiresome,  long  words." 

"  I  think,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  if  a  gentleman  have  a  horror 
of  a  literary  woman,  she  need  certainly  display  no  pedantry 
before  him.  She  can  keep  locked  in  reserve  her  best  intel- 


212  NEPENTHE. 

lectual  stores,  and  use  with  him  only  the  common  coin,  the 
small  change  of  conversation,  talking  of  common  things  in  a 
common  sense  way.  In  talking  with  ordinary  people,  on 
ordinary  occasions,  on  ordinary  subjects,  it  is  as  much  out 
of  place  to  use  the  largest  and  grandest  words,  as  for  a  lady 
to  wear  her  wedding  dress  and  set  of  diamonds  in  travel 
ling,  or  her  opera  cloak  and  hood  at  church.  Those  people 
who  are  always  coming  out  everywhere  with  their  words  in 
studied  full  dress,  are  very  tiresome  and  disagreeable.  We 
begin  to  think  that  the  display  is  so  marked,  that  the  origi 
nal  stock  is  small.  I  think  on  most  any  occasion,  'tis  best 
not  to  use  a  long  word  where  a  small  one  will  do.  Conver 
sation  is  like  mosaic — small  pieces  are  sometimes  inlaid  the 
best,  and  heighten  the  charm  of  the  whole.  Much  of  the 
German  poetry,  so  expressive  and  beautiful,  is  composed 
principally  of  short,  familiar  words.  We  seldom  think  in 
long  words.  The  best  minister  I  ever  heard  was  distin 
guished  for  his  simplicity  of  language.  He  never  used  one 
syllable  too  many,  or  a  word  you  could  omit.  He  never 
piled  up  adjectives.  His  sermon  would  be  a  pure,  clear 
stream  of  thought — his  comparisons  and  images  like  flowers 
beside  this  stream.  You  could  almost  sae  their  bright  sha 
dows  and  smell  their  fragrance.  A  flower  is  one  of  the  sim 
plest  things  of  nature,  yet  the  most  beautiful ;  and  this  cler 
gyman  always  had  a  flower  in  his  sermon.  How  often  have 
I  heard  him  allude  simply  and  beautifully  to  heliotropes  and 
violets,  and  the  flowers  never  seemed  put  in,  but  springing 
up,  and  growing  under  his  hand,  a  part  of  his  elevated  sub 
ject  and  elevated  soul. 

"  An  intelligent  woman  can  sooner  and  surer  find  out 
what  a  man  really  is,  than  another  man  can.  Men  often 
make  mistakes  about  each  other.  One  man  hides  his  heart 
from  another,  while  often  he  frankly  shows  his  gentler, 
warmer,  kinder  nature  to  a  true  woman.  He  may  seem  ice 
to  a  man,  and  sunshine  to  her.  Every  true  man  has  some 
spot  in  his  nature  where  tenderness  steals  in  and  flows  out, 
A  woman's  hand,  look  or  tone,  may  touch  the  valve  of  some 
secret  hydrant,  and  raise  the  warm,  gushing  sympathies 
from  the  deep  hidden  conduit  of  man's  rocky  heart." 

"  Ladies  who  make  some  literary  pretensions,  are  often 
jealous  of  those  more  beautiful  than  themselves,"  said  Flo 
rence.  "  Woman  is  made  to  adorn  man's  life.  There  is  a 


NEPENTHE.  213 

kind  of  style  and  manner  men  admire  almost  as  much  as 
beauty.  I  don't  think  there  are  as  many  hypocrites  among 
men  as  women  ;  above  all  things  I  do  despise  a  hypocrite," 
she  added,  with  emphasis. 

"  Gentlemen  have  not  as  many  yets,  and  buts,  and  ands," 
replied  Nepenthe,  not  noticing  Florence's  last  remark. 
"  They  have  more  magnanimity.  Their  true  opinion  and 
praise  are  less  qualified,  more  outspoken.  A  lady,  if  speak 
ing  of  another's  superior  beauty,  will  add,  '  She  has  a  good 
complexion,  but  her  nose  is  too  retrousse — she  would  be 
handsome,  if  her  eyebrows  were  not  too  strongly  marked  ;' 
and  she  will  add,  '  She  is  not  the  style  of  person  I  at  all 
admire  ;'  or,  '  She  has  such  a  horrid  walk,  it  spoils  her  ap 
pearance  completely  ;  and  then  if  her  face  is  faultless,  her 
features  are  too  regular  ;'  or,  '  She  is  deficient  in  style,'  or 
'  Her  hair  is  not  stylishly  arranged.  She  has  too  much 
gaucherie  and  mauvais  honte — she  is  not  well  bred — I  have 
seen  her  when  she  looked  really  homely.'  Some  ladies  shake 
hands,  or  even  kiss,  and  yet  hate  each  other.  I  never  want 
to  kiss  anybody  for  ceremony  or  custom,  unless  I  really 
love  them. 

"  Ladies  will  say,  '  I  am  glad  to  see  you — don't  be  in  a 
hurry  ;'  and  when  the  caller  is  gone,  you  will  soon  hear,  '  I 
am  glad  she  is  gone — she  made  an  everlasting  call.  I  won 
der  what  on  earth  sent  her  here  to-day  !'  I  don't  think  a 
man  is  as  apt  to  be  affable  to  bores  as  a  woman  often  is.  He 
will  sometimes  be  too  rude  to  those  he  dislikes,  rather  than 
too  courteous  and  bland.  I  have  known  of  gontlemen  send 
ing  their  wives  into  the  parlor  to  entertain  the  tedious  bores, 
while  they  slip  out  the  back  door,  or  escape  through  the 
front,  on  a  plea  of  business,  saying  to  themselves,  '  Dear 
me,  what  do  I  want  to  see  him  for  ?'  I  do  think  a  man  will 
speak  and  act  more  as  he  really  feels,  than  most  women,  ex 
cept  those  men  who  are  always  telling  everybody  they  are 
delighted  to  see  them,  and  treating  every  woman,  young  and 
old,  as  if  they  were  making  love  to  them.  There  are  some 
such  married  men,  who  are  always  making  each  young  girl 
they  nwiet  really  feel  that  they  would  soon  receive  an  offer 
from  them,  if  they  only  had  no  wife." 

"  No  woman  ever  gets  by  tact  and  after  practice,"  said 
Florence,  "  that  ease  and  elegance  gained  by  birth  and  early 
associations  with  high-bred  society.  It  is  a  great  charm  to 


214  NEPENTHE. 

be  always  at  ease,  always  self-possessed,  never  bashful, 
never  embarrassed.  Very  timid  persons  are  apt  to  be  awk 
ward." 

"  I  think  that  self-forgetfulness  is  the  charm  of  character 
and  manner,"  said  Nepenthe.  "  It  is  the  custom  of  society 
to  make  people  all  alike,  smoothing  down  the  salient  points 
of  character,  covering  up  and  veneering  over  with  the 
rosewood  of  benevobnce  and  mahogany  of  kindness  the  na 
tive  structure  of  the  heart.  You  can't  gu^ss  what  it  is  made 
of,  or  if  there  be  any  heart  left.  We  keep  the  heart  so 
draped  and  veiled  by  the  curtains  of  elegance,  belted  and 
barred  within  the  iron  fence  of  custom,  it  gets  no  strength 
and  vigor  by  active  free  exercise.  We  see  strangers  only 
with  the  heart  in  full  dress.  We  conceal  our  true  motives,  . 
and  often  do  not  give  the  real  true  reason  for  our  conduct. 
Well,  '  she  is  a  person  that  says  just  what  she  thinks,'  we 
say  of  some  one,  as  if  it  were  an  unusual  and  wonderful  fact. 

"  We  tell  a  friend  who  has  a  new  bonnet  that  she  looks 
exceedingly  well  in  it,  just  to  make  her  feel  comfortable  ; 
but  when  she  is  out  of  hearing,  we  say  that  it  is  a  shocking 
hat ;  but  I  did  not  like  to  tell  her  so.  I  wouldn't  be  seen 
in  the  street  with  such  a  hat  I  wish  she  would  come  out 
for  once  with  a  decent  bonnet,  a  real  stylish  bonnet." 

"  Well,"  said  Florence,  shaking  her  ringlets,  "  style  is 
everything.  I  could  not  be  happy  unless  I  could  have  ev 
erything  in  the  highest  style,  house,  servants,  furniture.  I 
should  be  miserable  in  a  plain,  common  house." 

"There  is  no  word  in  the  dictionary  like  that  word  style 
to  city  dwellers,"  said  Nepenthe.  "  It  is  in  every  young 
lady's  mouth,  stylish  hat,  stylish  dress,  stylish  figure,  stylish 
air — it  is  all  stylish  ;  how  different  from  the  style  we  learn 
about  in  the  old  rhetorics.  If  wealth  be  the  magical  word 
inscribed  upon  man's  livery,  style  is  woman's  spiritual  coat 
of  arms  ;  stylish,  the  highest  commendation  she  can  bestow 
on  manners,  dress,  equipage,  aye — lover.  Style  makes  a 
splendid  pageant  of  the  holy  bridal,  and  a  costly  show  of  the 
solemn  burial ;  stylishly  they  live,  stylishly  they  love,  sty 
lishly  are  they  buried.  We  refine  away  our  ideas  of  com 
fort  until  water  is  purer  from  a  golden  cup,  and  roses 
fresher  blooming  around  some  classic  chiselled  font,  pro 
tected  by  marble  nymph  or  dryad.  In  this  age,  I  think  we 
are  trying  more  to  find  the  evil  in  things  good,  than  the  good 


NEPENTHE.  2 15 

in  things  evil.  If  Christ  Himself,  the  All-Perfect  One,  were 
to  walk  our  crowded  thoroughfare  in  his  shining  robes,  some 
opera-glass  might  be  raised  to  spy,  if  possible,  some  dust  on 
His  trailing  garments  or  speck  in  their  shadowy  perfection." 

"  This  talk  about  truthful  conversation,  small  houses,  sim 
ple  dress  and  manners,"  said  Florence,  abruptly,  "  sounds 
very  well  in  a  lyceum  lecture  or  in  advice  to  young  men. 
But  who  likes  to  live  in  the  only  small  house  in  a  block  ?  to 
be  the  person  living  in  that  small  house  ?  Who  does  not 
prefer  to  have  all  the  smiling  domesticity  he  boasts  of  in 
a  fine  large  brown  stone  or  marble  front  ?  Most  of  the  world 
live,  dress,  and  have  houses  as  handsome  as  they  can.  These 
are  very  prudent  people  who  by  years  of  toil  have  at  last  ac 
quired  ample  means  and  an  elegant  style  of  living.  If  you 
live  in  a  small  house,  they'll  come  in  their  carriage  to  see 
you,  and  be  glad  you  are  beginning  on  so  economical  a  plan, 
and  yet  they'll  look  so  patronizingly  and  condescendingly  on 
your  one  sofa,  your  one  picture,  which  they  carefully  exam 
ine  with  a  glass,  informing  you  of  the  fresh  arrival  they  have 
just  had  of  paintings  and  statuary  from  Italy.  They  meas 
ure  with  their  eye  the  value  of  your  one  marble-topped  table, 
and  the  color  and  quality  of  your  one  best  silk  dress,  and  go 
away  and  say  to  their  dear  friends  they  found  you  quite  com 
fortable,  though  living  in  a  very  humble  way,  for  you  make 
no  ^retentions  to  style,  they  add,  with  a  kind  of  pitying  em 
phasis. 

"  I  really  think  there  is  a  kind  of  vulgar  air  about  people 
who  live  in  small  houses  ;  they  have  such  contracted  ideas. 
You  can  read  economy  and  saving  all  over  their  simple 
faces.  They  are  always  making  over  dresses,  turning  car 
pets,  and  altering  their  old  bonnets,  eating  with  plated  forks, 
from  granite  ware,  and  drinking  out  of  pressed  glass  goblets. 
But,  Nepenthe,  you  are  too  plebeian  in  your  manners.  I 
wish,  while  with  us,  you  would  keep  a  more  proper  distance 
from  our  inferiors." 

"  My  life  has  been  too  real,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  to  keep  any 
freezing  distance  with  any  one." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Florence,  "  if  you  were  once  a  beggar 
yourself,  'tis  no  reason  you  should  compromise  us.  You 
stop  in  the  street  and  speak  to  every  servant  girl  or  laun 
dress  we've  ever  had.  I  believe  you  would  bow  as  politely 


216  NEPENTHE. 

to  black  Thomas,  who  brings  our  groceries,  as  to  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  himself." 

"  No  matter  how  high  I  hold  my  poor  head,"  said  Nepen 
the,  "  I  must  lay  it  at  last  on  the  breast  of  the  same  earth- 
mother  as  the  humblest  person  I  know.  I  can't  see  how  a 
mortal  woman,  frail  and  doomed  to  die,  and  to  be  judged 
hereafter,  solely  by  her  trusting  faith  and  deeds  of  kindness, 
can  be  proud,  or  conceited,  or  overbearing,  or  how  she  can 
be  constantly  light-hearted  while  her  life,  health,  and  future 
are  all  in  the  hands  of  One  who  can  deprive  her  of  life's 
pride  at  any  moment." 

"Well,"  interrupted  Florence,  haughtily,  "these  ideas 
•would  sound  well  in  a  book  or  sermon,  but  I  think  it  be 
neath  the  dignity  of  any  lady  to  be  bowing  and  smiling  to 
every  passing  Bridget  or  wandering  Patrick.  Such  atten 
tions  make  them  independent,  impudent,  and  intolerable." 

"  We  can  recognize  any  human  being  without  being  fa 
miliar  with  him,"  added  Nepenthe,  quietly.  "  If  you  were 
drowning  in  deep  water,  you  would  gladly  be  rescued  by  the 
hard  hands  of  a  faithful  black  servant.  We  may  find  faith 
fulness  and  gratitude  among  such  persons,  and  they  can 
often  give  us  material  aid.  I  prize  as  much  as  any  gift  I 
ever  had,  that  beautifully  chiselled  lamb  brought  me  by 
that  poor  sculptor  out  of  gratitude  for  my  visits  to  his  sick 
child.  The  lamb  is  really  valuable,  and  beautifully  chis 
elled." 

"  You  know  very  well,"  said  Florence,  "  you  invariably 
find  ignorance  wedded  to  poverty.  For  myself,  I  wish 
neither  to  touch  or  share  the  life  or  destiny  of  ignorant, 
low-bred,  pauper  humanity.  I  would  hold  up  my  spiritual 
skirts  higher  from  the  influence  of  this  contagion  than  I 
would  raise  my  delicate  robes  from  the  mud  of  Broadway 
some  rainy  day  after  a  snow.  I  cannot  relish  anything  com 
mon  ;  my  sympathies  and  tastes  have  been  too  highly  edu 
cated.  As  for  you,  with  your  experiences,  you  may  feel 
naturally  no  such  distaste." 

"  If  you  should  ever  be,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  in  mental 
agony,  bodily  distress,  or  personal  danger,  you  may 
find  more  sympathy,  relief,  and  succor  from  some  old 
nurse,  faithful  servant,  or  kind  stranger,  than  from  the 
formal,  elegant  attentions  of  a  whole  regiment  of  amateurs, 
beaux,  belles,  exquisites,  leaders  of  ton.  There  may  be  no 


NEPENTHE.  217 

style  in  the  shape  or  motives  of  the  honest  hands  that  bathe 
and  bind  up  your  wounded  spirit  or  bruised  limbs,  no  manner 
in  the  quiet,  good  souls  with  cheerful  eyes  that  summon  so 
quickly  the  warm  water,  hot  flannel,  fresh  tea  and  clean 
linen.  Proud  as  we  are,  how  many  days  in  our  lives  are  we 
really  comfortable  ?  How  many  calm  hours  is  the  heart 
warmly  tucked  in  and  softly  pillowed  ?  If  cold,  we  want 
fire  ;  if  hungry,  food  ;  if  thirsty,  water.  So  the  heart  has  its 
hunger,  chill  and  thirst ;  style  can  never  warm  and  feed  and 
cherish  it ;  there  must  be  warm  hearts,  gushing  sympathies, 
and  cordial  hands.  The  heart  wants  comfort  unmasked,  un- 
costumed,  simple  comfort,  dear  comfort,  which  is  never  out 
of  place,  never  out  of  date,  never  unwelcome,  never  an  in 
truding  stranger.  In  life's  crowded  car  we  want  something 
besides  hard  apples  and  sweetened  balls  of  painted  pop-corn 
to  keep  us  good-natured. 

"  Those  who  greet  you  so  blandly,  praise  you  so  warmly 
while  in  the  full  bloom  of  beauty,  and  height  of  fortune, 
will  be  the  last  to  cheer,  sustain,  and  soothe,  should  your 
cheek  pale,  your  step  falter,  or  your  heart  despond.  They 
will  pass  by  you  on  the  other  side  of  fortune  with  their  light 
step,  ringing  laugh,  and  say,  '  How  Florence  Elliott  has 
changed.  She  has  lost  all  her  beauty.  I  believe  she. has 
been  disappointed.  How  proud  she  once  was  !  She  must 
feel  mortified.' 

"  I  never  see  a  living  suffering  woman,  but  I  long  to  re 
lieve  her ;  or  a  tired,  sobbing  child,  but  I  yearn  to  take  it 
in  my  arms  and  soothe  it ;  a  hungry,  haggard  beggar,  but  I 
long  to  feed  him  ;  I  would  like  so  much  to  mend  all  the 
boy's  broken  toys,  the  man's  broken  fortunes,  the  woman's 
broken  hopes,  and  the  maiden's  broken  loves. 

"Our  poor  young  hungry  hopes  go  wandering  up  and 
down,  longing  for  rest  and  food.  I  often  wish  I  could  take 
all  the  worn  and  weary  world  in  my  arms  and  rock  it  to 
sleep.  I  wish  I  could  sing  some  sweet  lullaby  in  every 
heavy  ear  ;  I  wish  I  could  float  some  melody  through  the 
air,  to  hush  each  wailing  heart,  and  pillow  it  somewhere  at 
rest.  I  wish  a  troop  of  angels  would  come  again  and  sing 
once  more  '  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  man.'  I  wish  some 
other  star  could  hover  over,  and  lead  our  modern  bewildered 
wise  men  to  a  peace-giving  Christ. 

"  I  wish  everybody  had  a  home.     I  wish  every  orphaned, 
10 


218  NEPENTHE. 

widowed  and  solitary  heart  could  say  at  nightfall,  I  am  go 
ing  home — eyes  are  watching  for  me  there. 

"  We  must  stoop  to  bathe  the  head  of  sorrow  and  wipe 
the  human  tear.  The  ladder  whence  angels  descended 
touched  the  ground.  No  tree  can  kiss  the  clouds  or  bloom 
in  heaven,  whose  roots  are  not  clinging  and  clasping  in  the 
deep  earth. 

"  If  we  stoop  to  raise  up  fallen  humanity,  what  matter  if 
our  robes  are  soiled  with  the  dust  1  We  shall  lie  down  in 
the  earth  at  last. 

"  The  poorest  ragged  wanderer  in  the  world  is  as  near 
the  Great  All  Father  as  the  radiant,  crowned,  and  royal- 
robed  sovereign  of  a  proud  kingdom.  When  we  think  of 
the  fever,  the  passions,  and  the  agony  that  can  prostrate  in 
one  little  hour  the  proudest  and  most  beautiful  form,  how 
foolish  seem  these  little  assumptions  of  superiority  ! — all 
doomed  at  last  to  a  narrow  spot  of  earth,  with  no  better  final 
distinction  than  the  corroding  silver  plate,  or  decaying  rose 
wood. 

"  Kings  and  beggars,  side  by  side,  walking  at  last  through 
the  gate  of  dust,  must  rise  cadets  together,  in  immortal  uni 
form,  to  walk  through  gates  of  pearl. 

"  Everybody  likes  kindness.  Nobody  is  so  high  but  that 
there  is  some  one  higher  to  give  him  attention  or  pleasant 
words.  If  blessed  to  receive  attention,  it  is  certainly 
blessed  to  give." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Florence,  "  you  come  honestly  enough 
by  your  sermonizing  propensities — 'tis  a  part  of  your  glori 
ous  birthright.  You  may  do  all  this  out  of  policy.  It  is 
well  for  dependent  people  to  be  politic,  I  grant,  but  I  am  in 
dependent  of  such  kindness.  I  desire  no  contamination 
with  inferiors.  I  wish  to  be  light  hearted,  and  don't  wish 
to  be  made  gloomy  or  annoyed  by  other  people's  troubles." 

"  I  often  look  on  a  young  bright  face,"  said  Nepenthe, 
"  where  no  trace  of  sorrow  seems  to  linger,  and  wonder  if  a 
human  heart  ever  attains  its  first  score  of  years,  and  is  tho 
roughly  and  constantly  light-hearted — if  no  love  hath  mel 
lowed,  no  grief  hath  softened,  no  sorrow  chastened,  no 
thought  sobered.  This  one  thought — it  is  appointed  unto 
man  once  to  die,  will  come  to  all,  even  while  elated  with 
happiness.  The  brightest  life  will  end  soon — may  end  now. 
Happy  as  you  seem,  Florence,  I  am  quite  sure  that  that  only 


NEPENTHE.  219 

is  true  happiness  which  is  pleasant  and  thornless  in  the  re 
trospect." 

"  God  has  set  His  private  mark  upon  each  individual 
soul,"  added  Nepenthe,  in  a  low  voice,  after  pausing  a  mo 
ment,  "  and  we  earthly  appraisers  must  take  care  how  we 
underrate  God's  private  mark  of  real  value.  Above  the 
heads  we  now  scorn,  angel  hands  may  be  holding  some  gol 
den  crown.  Some  soul  we  despise  for  its  plebeian  setting 
and  parvenu  surroundings,  may  yet  be  transfigured  in  the 
radiant  robes  of  genius  on  the  highest  hill  of  fame.  Some 
passing  ragpicker  may  yet  doff  his  rags — his  bent,  worn  hat 
vanish  into  a  crown,  and  his  old  hook  into  a  sceptre  of  in 
tellectual  might. 

"  Nothing  but  sin  can  induce  me  ever  to  treat  any  human 
being  coldly.  Nothing  but  sin,  we  say  ;  yet  sinless  lips 
once  said,  '  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee,  go  and  sin  no  more.' 
Every  human  being  with  whom  we  come  in  contact  has  a 
right  to  our  civility  and  kindness." 

"  Your  remarks  savor  more  of  the  kitchen  than  the  draw 
ing  room,"  said  Florence  contemptuously  ;  "  they  probably 
take  the  hue  of  your  early  associations.  Let  each  one  take 
care  of  their  own  set.  I  like  a  kind  of  hauteur  in  manners, 
as  if  you  felt  above  the  common  herd.  But  there  is  one 
thing — I  do  believe  it  is  wrong  for  a  woman  of  low  origin, 
and  of  so  much  pretended  principle,  ever  to  attempt  to  cap 
tivate  a  highminded  and  honorable  man." 

Florence  went  out  abruptly,  her  eyes  saying  a  great  deal 
more  than  her  lips,  as  she  sailed  majestically  away  ;  and 
soon  elegantly  dressed,  she  went  out  to  promenade  Broad 
way. 

As  she  went,  Bridget  looked  out  of  the  basement  door, 
•watching  the  retreating  velvet,  satin  and  feathers  ;  then  she 
went  back  to  her  kitchen,  saying, 

"  Well,  there's  no  mistake  that  I  may  never  sin,  Miss 
Florence  is  good  looking,  magnificent  good  looking.  I  won 
der  why  some  people  is  made  so  magnificent  good  looking, 
and  more  so  homely,  so  magnificent  homely.  1  wonder  why 
God  couldn't  have  made  us  all  good  looking." 

Bridget  called  everything  she  liked  magnificent.  It  was 
the  only  long  word  she  ever  used,  and  she  thought  it  equal 
ly  applicable  to  people  and  puddings,  biscuits  and  bonnets. 

"  Well,"  soliloquized  Mrs.  Elliott,  as  she  sat  putting  the 


220  NEPENTHE. 

last  touches  on  her  new  sofa  cushion,  "  I  have  had  this  girl 
here  about  long  enough.  I  think  I  have  more  than  fulfilled 
all  my  obligations  to  Dr.  Wendon,  real  and  imaginary. 
There  is  nothing  really  pretty  about  her,  and  yet  somehow 
people  do  like  her,  and  men  do  take  such  strange  freaks, 
particularly  men  of  genius.  I  do  get  into  such  a  fidget 
sometimes  about  that  will.  No  matter  how  tight  you  tie 
Tabby  in  the  bag,  there's  never  any  knowing  when  the  cat's 
head  may  appear  ;  and  once  give  such  a  secret  any  airing, 
like  Tabby,  only  let  her  see  the  road  she  came,  and  she  '11 
know  well  how  to  trace  her  way  back  again.  So  give  a  se 
cret  a  little  airing,  and  you  never  know  where  it  may  go  ;  it 
may  go  back  to  head  quarters.  But  I'd  rather  marry  the 
girl  off  than  send  her  away.  I  never  set  my  heart  on  any 
thing  yet  without  accomplishing  it,  but  I  don't  believe  in 
intellectual  women.  I  agree  with  Lessing  in  Emilia  Galotti 
that  I  was  reading  this  morning.  La  femme  doit  rire, 
toujours  rire  ;  cela  suffit  a  sa  noble  mission  sur  la  terre  cela 
suffit  pour  maintenir  en  joyeuse  huuicur  1'auguste  roi  de  la 
creation."  r 

When  Mrs.  Elliott  wished  to  say  or  think  anything  very 
wise,  it  was  always  said  or  thought  in  French.  She  prided 
herself  upon  this.  She  sat  up  late  that  night.  She  had  in 
that  evening's  mail  received  a  letter  that  gave  her  much 
uneasiness.  She  locked  her  door,  and  looked  over  old  pa 
pers,  and  burned  up  several  old  and  worn  documents.  She 
lay  awake  almost  all  night,  and  the  text  of  that  self-denial 
sermon  kept  ringing  in  her  ears- — Withhold  not  any  good 
from  him  to  whom  it  is  due,  when  it  is  in  the  power  of  thine 
hand  to  do  it. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

NEPENTHE    REFUSES  A  SELF  MADE    MAN  AND  WORTHY  HUSBAND. 

"  There's  such  a  thing  as  dwelling 

On  the  thoughts  ourselves  have  nursed, 
And  with  scorn  and  courage  telling 
The  world  to  do  its  worst/'  CUKRER   BELL. 

"  You  can't  expect  another  such  an  offer,  Nepenthe  Stu 
art,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  coolly,  after  wasting  no  little  logic 
and  rhetoric  in  vainly  trying  to  persuade  Nepenthe  to  ac- 


NEPENTHE.  221 

cept  of  certain  recent  proposals  of  a  very  flattering  and  eli 
gible  nature,  "  of  which,"  as  she  said  most  emphatically, 
"  any  girl  in  her  senses  might  be  proud," — she  ended  her 
first  series  of  arguments  with  this  terrible  prophecy,  "  you'll 
die  an  old  maid." 

"  Well,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  there's  nothing  disgraceful  in 
that — nothing  criminal." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  "  it  is  not  a  penal  offence  to  re 
main  unmarried,  but  you  very  well  know  old  maids  are  uni 
versally  let  alone.  The  way  they  are  sometimes  treated  in 
society  is  no  better  than  actual  solitary  confinement.  Young 
married  couples  seek  their  own  companionship,  young  men 
and  maidens  get  together  by  themselves,  old  people  are  too 
old  to  be  their  companions,  children  too  noisy,  old  bachelors 
and  widowers  are  hunting  up  young  wives.  What  are  these 
old  maids,  nurses,  stocking-darners,  corner-fillers,  append 
ages,  incumbrances,  the  world  calls  them.  Their  sayings 
and  doings  are  much  more  criticised,  even  if  their  manners 
are  circumspect,  than  those  of  the  most  weak-minded  and 
ordinary  women  well-married.  A  husband  is  a  shield  to  a 
woman  ;  a  shield  from  criticism  ;  but  an  unmarried  woman 
is  very  often  the  subject  of  remark.  If  she  be  vain  or  weak- 
minded,  she  is  foolish  ;  if  independent  and  outspoken,  she  is 
eccentric,  or  one  of  the  strong-minded,  so  the  world  says, 
and  if  she  lives  as  retired  and  sequestered  as  a  nun,  if  she 
looks  at  a  widower,  or  talks  to  a  bachelor,  if  she  sits  within 
two  feet  of  him  in  a  large  parlor,  somebody  will  have  it  that 
she  is  after  him.  She  is  setting  her  cap,  and  some  one  will 
ill-naturedly  say,  though  she  is  just  his  age,  '  she  looks  old 
enough  to  be  his  mother,'  and  such  trouble  will  be  taken  to 
find  out  exactly  what  her  age  really  is  from  family  Bibles, 
old  nurses,  or  cotemporary  school-mates,  and  all  these  esti 
mates  will  often  be  summed  up  with  the  conclusion  that 
though  she  looks,  with  her  curls  and  youthful  dress,  only 
thirty,  she's  not  a  day  under  forty." 

"  A  man  may  live  alone  for  good  and  noble  reasons,"  said 
Nepenthe,  "  and  I  have  a  far  greater  respect  for  a  woman 
who  will  not  marry  because  she  does  not  love,  than  for  a 
young  girl  who  marries  to  avoid  the  odium  of  being  called 
an  old  maid.  There  are  women  with  the  warmest  and  no 
blest  of  hearts  living  unmarried  for  the  best  of  reasons. 


222  NEPENTHE. 

Could  their  lives  be  written  out,  there  would  be  some  thrill 
ing  accounts  of  self-sacrifice  and  self-devotion. 

"  A  woman  may  be  lonely,  and,  at  times,  unhappy,  un 
married,  but  if  she  be  married  to  an  uncongenial  man,  she  is 
doubly  miserable,  twice  as  lonely,  twice  as  unhappy  as  if 
living  alone.  She  may  have  had  forty  offers,  and  yet  some 
body  will  ask,  '  Why  couldn't  she  marry  ?'  while  it  will  be 
said  of  the  ugliest,  crustiest,  fussiest  old  bachelor,  '  I  wonder 
why  he  never  married.  It  is  very  strange.'  " 

"  But  Mr.  Nicholson  is  a  benevolent  man,  certainly,"  said 
Mrs.  Elliott.  "  I  see  his  name  on  the  list  of  all  our  prom 
inent  charities.  Were  you  to  marry  him,  you  might  be 
able  to  do  very  much  good." 

"  Marry  him  .'"  said  Nepenthe  ;  "  he  would  regret  more 
the  loss  of  a  favorite  horse  than  the  death  of  his  mother,  who 
really  suffered  from  his  neglect.  He  is  always  offering  his 
services,  yet  he  would  never  take  one  step  out  of  his  com 
fortable  path  to  save  a  hundred  beggars  from  starvation. 
He'll  smooth  down  his  luxuriant  whiskers  as  he  exclaims, 
often  audibly,  more  often  mentally,  '  no  industrious  person 
need  starve.'1  This  prudent,  sagacious  idea  checks  effectually 
all  his  rising  generosity.  He  comes  to  me  with  his  new 
neck-tie,  his  patent-leathers,  his  costly  bouquets,  and  wants 
me  to  be  induced  by  these  preliminary  '  trifles  '  to  promise 
to  help  him  to  offer  up  to  his  mo^t  worshipful  self  his  daily 
matins  and  vespers. 

"  If  he  were  never  so  handsome,  wealthy  and  wonderful, 
I  could  never  tolerate  him  if  he  were  selfish.  The  highest 
order  of  goodness  and  of  genius  is  never  selfish.  He  always 
says  with  his  eyes,  when  he  comes  out  with  his  new  suit, 
'  Don't  I  look  well  this  evening,  Miss  Nepenthe  ?  Who  can 
resist  such  attractions  ?  I  have  graduated  with  the  highest 
honors  of  the  best  tailors  in  the  city.  I  am  finished  and 
complete.'  Were  William  Nicholson  to  robe  me  in  ruby  and 
wreath  me  with  diamonds,  and  place  me  in  a  house  of  pearl, 
feed  me  on  nectar  and  ambrosia,  I  would  rather  marry  blind 
fold  the  first  plough-boy  I  might  meet.  I  would  rather  have 
a  possibility  of  a  heart  than  a  certainty  of  unmitigated  self 
ishness. 

"  A  guinea  on  his  counter's  brim 
A  yellow  guinea  is  to  him, 
That  guinea  he'll  adore." 


NEPENTHE.  223 

"  Don't  get  excited,  Nepenthe — there  goes  Mrs.  Joshua 
Jenkins,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  rising  and  going  to  the  window. 
She  was  only  three  years  ago  a  young  lady,  beautiful  and 
accomplished,  but  poor — no  better  off  than  yourself.  See 
what  an  elegant  carriage,  footman  and  livery — how  splen 
didly  she's  dressed.  I  saw  her  the  other  day  at  Ball  & 
Black's,  and  she  was  all  diamonds,  ermine  and  velvet.  I 
am  sure  Joshua  Jenkins  makes  an  unexceptionable  husband, 
yet  I  would  much  prefer  Mr.  Nicholson.  Mr.  Nicholson's 
money  is  invested  in  bond  and  mortgage,  the  best  of  all 
security — and  Mr.  Jenkins'  is  all  in  bank  stock  ;  and  banks 
may  fail.  Then  Mr.  Nicholson  can't  be  illiterate,  for  he  is 
one  of  the  Board  of  Education." 

"  It  may  be  possible  for  him  to  be  one  of  that  highly  re 
spectable  Board,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  yet  he  does  not  write 
his  name  remarkably  well.  He  always  says  convalescent, 
voilent,  and  volumnious  and  tremengeous,  and  serup,  and 
sperit ;  and  I  get  so  tired  of  hearing  him  say  meetin'  for 
meeting,  and  smilin',  speakin',  and  larnin'  and  takin'  of  it ; 
but  I  do  not  envy  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Joshua  Jenkins.  Nobody 
ever  borrows  money  of  him — he  never  loses  a  debt — he  pays 
his  servants  low  wages — insists  on  the  utmost  penny  due 
him.  He  runs  no  risks.  He  never  reads — he  can't  see  the 
difference  between  Byron  and  Dr.  Watts,  but  he  keeps  his 
thoughtful  eye  on  the  banks.  His  young  wife  was  beauti 
ful,  he  rich.  There  was  a  brief  acquaintance,  short  engage 
ment,  and  a  splendid  wedding.  Now  she  has  ermine,  and 
velvet,  and  diamonds.  Ermine  is  a  beautiful  fur.  I  should 
like  to  wear  it — it  suits  my  taste.  I  fancy  it  would  be  very 
becoming  to  me  ;  and  velvet  is  an  elegant  dress.  I  would 
like  a  very  long  velvet  cloak,  a  black  velvet  dress,  and  a 
blue  velvet  and  a  violet-colored  velvet  waist ;  and  I  do  ad 
mire  the  flash  and  gleam  of  a  diamond.  I  wish  I  had  a  dia 
mond  ring.  My  hand  has  always  looked  lonesome  to  me  with 
out  one.  This  life  has  so  many  dull,  dark  hours,  I'd  like  to 
have  something  so  pure  and  radiant  always  about  me.  There 
is  such  a  celestial,  transparent  gleam  in  a  diamond's  light, 
my  eyes  seem  to  brighten  as  I  look  at  one,  and  I  feel  the 
sparkle  in  my  soul  too.  Yes,  I  like  diamonds. 

"  But  love  is  a  softer  ermine  for  the  soul,  a  richer,  more 
radiant  jewel  in  the  heart ;  and  my  heart  would  be  so  cold 
and  ache  if  it  couldn't  be  clasped  in  the  embrace  of  a  faith 


224  NEPENTHE. 

warmer  and  richer  than  costliest  velvet  folds.  I  should 
starve  and  freeze  without  love's  little  pearl  set  in  my  heart. 
But  Mrs.  Joshua  Jenkins'  life  must  be  dull.  She  has  not 
a  single  taste  in  common  with  her  husband,  and  in  society 
she  can't  help  being  annoyed  by  his  blunders.  If  he  only 
knew  enough  to  keep  still — but  he  will  talk,  and  he  over 
acts  and  overdoes  everything.  He  says  the  flattest  things 
about  nice  days  and  pretty  music.  When  I  see  them  toge 
ther,  I  think  of  a  fair  lily  of  the  valley  planted  beside  a 
cabbage.  I  have  heard  it  said  in  every  wedding  there  is  a 
loss.  There  was  a  terrible  loss  in  that  wedding.  Poor 
woman  !  His  money  can't  buy  her  happiness.  His  loves 
are  dogs,  horses,  wine  and  beafsteaks.  Hers  are  music, 
painting,  books,  and  flowers.  When  she  was  so  ill  last  sea 
son,  some  one  suggested  having  some  beautiful  painting 
hung  on  the  wall  near  her  bed,  to  divert  her  thoughts  from 
her  sufferings  ;  so  he  brought  home  one  afternoon  the  en 
graving  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  signing  the  death-warrant 
of  Lady  Jane  Grey,  and  Peale's  '  Court  of  Death.'  These 
were  wonderfully  calculated  to  relievo  the  gloom  of  the 
sick-room. 

"  If  I  marry  William  Nicholson,  Esq.,  five  years  to  come 
we'll  be  walking  together,  like  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jenkins,  like 
two  parallel  Hues,  our  heart-chords  never  meeting,  though 
stretching  on  side  by  side  in  the  horizon  of  years." 

"  He  is  a  self-made  man,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  dignifiedly  ; 
"  that  surely  is  in  his  favor,  and  he  has  attained  a  tine  posi 
tion  among  business  men  by  his  own  unaided  efforts." 

"  I'd  rather  he'd  be  a  God-made  man  than  a  self-made 
man,"  said  Nepenthe.  "  Of  all  things  I  dislike  this  self- 
styled,  self-made  man.  Some  of  them  are  regular  bores, 
always  taking  such  infinite  pains  to  show  you  they  know 
something.  They  are  great  show-cases  on  the  walls  of  soci 
ety,  just  like  the  show-cases  in  the  small  fancy  stores  way 
up  town.  Everything  they  have  is  stuck  up  in  the  windows 
or  in  a  glass  box,  always  out  on  exhibition — gloves,  collars, 
caps,  laces,  hosiery,  handkerchiefs,  undersleeves,  all  ar 
ranged  conspicuously  to  show  the  full  dimensions  and  style 
of  each  article,  to  attract  the  attention  of  passing  pedes 
trians.  If  you  enter  the  store,  you'll  find  nothing,  abso 
lutely  nothing  that  you  want.  It  is  all  in  the  windows. 
You  can't  eveu  perhaps  get  a  yard  of  narrow  pink  satin  rib- 


NEPENTHE.  225 

bon,  or  a  paper  of  needles.  They've  '  had  the  articles,  but 
are  out  now,  will  have  them  to-morrow,  if  you  can  wait.' 
So  these  self-styled  self-made  men  are  nothing  but  show 
cases,  or  shop-windows  in  the  structure  of  society,  Hear 
them  talk,  you'd  think  they  kept  a  variety  store  of  know 
ledge.  They  say,  '  I  didn't  get  it  at  an  University,  or  Col 
lege  either.'  , 

"They've  a  good  many  ideas  at  second-hand.  They 
came  across  lots  of  knowledge  in  remnants  and  bundles. 
They  haven't  used  their  eyes  for  nothing.  What  a  show 
they  can  make  in  conversation.  It  is  astonishing.  From 
head  to  foot  they  are  knowledge  all  over.  Their  heads  are 
like  patch-bags — you  can't  find  the  piece  of  information  you 
wish,  unless  you  empty  the  whole  bag.  They've  a  good 
many  remnants  of  knowledge,  half  a  yard  or  so  on  this  sub 
ject  and  on  that,  and  they  got  'em  cheap  too  ;  and  every 
opnion  they  advance  they  begin  with  '  To  my  mind  ' 

"  When  these  self-made  men  get  all  rigged  up  in  their 
second-hand  ideas,  they  strut  around  like  the  countryman, 
exclaiming,  '  See  my  new  ideas — ain't  they  wonderful,  don't 
they  fit  nice  ?'  Then  to  finish  their  spiritual  toilet,  they 
put  on  a  cap  which  covers  head  and  ears,  and  the  cap  is 
Progress.  This  progress-cap  caps  the  climax  of  everything 
they  say  or  do.  Every  time  you  see  or  hear  from  them, 
they  are  over  head  and  ears  in  progress.  And  first  you 
know  they  are  professed  conductors  in  the  car  of  knowledge, 
driving  in  advance  of  the  tardy  age.  This  progress  cap  is 
a  kind  of  percussion-cap — it  is  always  striking  against  some 
thing,  particularly  the  crying  evils  of  the  times. 

"  When  this  self-made  man  first  gets  the  idea  in  his  head 
that  this  is  an  age  of  progress,  how  his  eye  twinkles,  how  he 
rubs  his  hands  together — he  feels  as  if  he  could  write  such 
an  essay,  and  only  let  people  know  what  an  idea  this  pro 
gress  is.  He  likes  the  word  development,  he  puts  it  in 
everything  he  writes.  He  also  puts  in,  '  We  live  in  a  won 
derful  age  ;'  and  if  he  quotes  any  poetry  it  is  usually  these 
lines  : 

'  Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air.'. 

And  some  how  his  manner  implies  that  he  is  the  flower  that 
might  have  been  wasted  on  the  desert  air,  that  he  is  the  gem 

10* 


226  NEPENTHE. 

that  was  self-saved  from  the  dark  caves  of  ignorance  and 
oblivion. 

"  He'll  read  some  book  all  learned  men  study  thoroughly 
at  fifteen,  and  he'll  talk  about  it  at  the  table,  as  if  nobody 
had  ever  heard  of  it  before.  If  he  happens  to  get  hold  of  a 
work  on  geology,  he'll  talk  oif  strata  and  formations  every 
day  for  a  week.  If  he  hears  a  minister  he  likes,  he  says 
positively  he  is  the  greatest  mind  of  the  age.  Next  time  he 
hears  him,  he  says  he  is  thought  by  all  intelligent  men  to 
be  the. greatest  mind  of  the  age.  He  really  thinks,  this  self- 
styled  self-made  man,  that  he  has  struck  a  vein  of  pure 
knowledge  which  these  dull  college  plodders  have  dug  for 
years,  and  never  found  any  really  valuable  information. 
He  knows  just  as  much  as  those  college  exquisites,  with 
Kappa  Alpha's  and  Sigma  Phi's  dangling  at  their  sides. 
How  he  secretly  wishes  he  could  wear  some  shining  badge 
of  his  self-made-ship  hanging  at  his  side — an  S.  M.,  or  some 
thing  indicating  his  progress  in  knowledge. 

"  He  says  there's  no  use  of  digging  and  digging  at  the 
dry  roots  of  these  Latin  and  Greek  grammars,  making  such 
a  wonderful  classic  foundation — it  is  all  waste  time.  Why 
he  can  build  himself  up  in  all  necessary  knowledge  in  one- 
fourth  of  the  time,  without  having  all  this  cellar  and  sub- 
cellar  in  the  bottom  of  his  head,  which  nobody  ever  looks 
into.  It's  a  waste  of  brain  capital — it  is  a  dead  investment, 
the  paying  such  a  premium  for  going  through  Greek  and 
Latin  grammars. 

"  For  myself,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  I  would  rather  marry  an 
excellent  blacksmith  than  a  tolerable  lawyer,  a  stupid  min 
ister,  a  rich  miser,  and  above  all  a  self-styled  self-made 
man." 

"  I  have  taken  a  deep  interest  in  your  welfare,"  said  Mrs. 
Elliott,  with  some  pathos  in  her  voice.  "  I  have  seen  very 
much  of  the  world.  I  have  taken  some  pains  to  bring  this 
matter  about,  and  I  am  very  much  surprised  that  you  should 
hesitate  a  moment,  or  think  of  rejecting  such  a  flattering 
offer  as  that  of  William  Nicholson,  Esq.  His  position  and 
resources  are  certainly  everything  desirable,  and  he  would 
really  make  you  a  most  worthy  husband." 

"  A  worthy  husband  of  all  things  is  what  I  do  not  want," 
said  Nepenthe.  "  All  stupid  people  are  called  worthy,  wor 
thy,  worthy.  If  all  the  men  called  worthy  could  be  together 


NEPENTHE.  227 

-  * 
in  one  picture  gallery,  what  a  smooth-haired,  smooth-faced, 

smooth-lipped,  long-eared,  girl-faced  set  they  would  be." 

"  For  a  lady  of  your  supposed  sense,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott; 
dry^y,  "  you  have  really  some  very  strange  notions  of  love 
and  marriage.  I  always  thought  you  had  some  queer  streaks 
about  you.  You  are  certainly  ungrateful.  I  have  shown 
Mr.  Nicholson  much  attention  on  your  account.  To  me  you 
owe  your  present  position  and  standing  in  society.  I  have 
long  wished  to  see  you  happily  married,  as  I  said  before,  to  < 
a  worthy  husband.  I  must  add,  in  justice  to  Mr.  Nichol 
son,  that  I  think  it  a  great  condescension  in  him  to  offer 
himself  to  a  portionless  bride.  There  are  other  reasons  I 
need  not  name  why  it  is  a  still  greater  condescension  in 
him  to  make  this  proposal  at  this  time.  The  Nicholson 
family  are  one  of  the  first  in  the  country.  You  would  be 
introduced  in  that  set,  and  be  always  sure  of  an  elegant 
home.  I  rather  disliked  Mr.  Elliott  when  I  married  him, 
yet  I  think  we  got  on  together  as  happily  as  most  married 
people  do,  and  he  left  me  well  provided  for.  Should  Mr. 
Nicholson  die  before  you,  he  would  leave  you  an  ample 
fortune." 

"  I  should  hardly  look  forward  to  that  event,''  interrupted 
Nepenthe,  "judging  from  his  present  ample  size  and  per 
fect  health  ;  indeed,  I  am  afraid,  should  I  marry  him  with 
my  present  feelings,  should  that  melancholy  event  occur,  I 
could  hardly  lament  it  as  deeply  as  a  bereaved,  disconsolate 
and  inconsolable  widow  is  expected  to." 

"  I  regret  that  you  treat  my  advice  and  consideration  for 
your  welfare  so  indifferently,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  in  an  of 
fended  tone.  "  I  could  improve  you  very  much  if  you 
would  take  a  few  of  my  suggestions.  I  see  a  great  many 
things  in  you  I  could  alter." 

"1  am  not  unmindful  of  any  kindness  shown  me,"  said 
Nepenthe.  "  You  have  given  me  food  when  hungry,  a  com 
fortable  bed  to  sleep  upon  when  weary,  a  roof  to  shelter  my 
aching  head.  If  I  wept  for  sorrow,  you  called  me  impa 
tient  ;  if  I  mourned  a  loss,  you  told  me  others  have  mourned 
heavier.  When  I  burned  my  arm  by  saving  you  from  the 
flames,  you  reminded  me  that  others  had  lost  both  arms.  I 
must  needs  be  thankful  that  I  had  still  two.  If  I  lose  one 
arm,  it  is  no  consolation  that  another  poor  sufferer  has  lost 
both,  If  my  head  is  bruised,  it  is  no  consolation  to  me  that 


228  NEPENTHE. 

another  woman  is  lying  in  the  next  street  all  mangled  and 
helpless,  almost  torn  to  pieces  from  some  terrible  accident. 
A  musical  ear  feels  most  keenly  the  least  discord,  while 
another  ear  can  imperturbably  bear  the  most  hideous  jargon. 
There  are  many  people  in  this  world  who  would  clothe  and 
feed  us,  to  whom  we  could  never  whisper  a  sorrow,  or  breathe 
a  hope.  If  we  are  keenly  regretting  some  mistake  we  have 
made,  it  is  no  comfort  to  have  some  one  tell  us  we  are  weak, 
foolish,  injudicious,  and  ask  us,  '  What  did  you  do  that  for  ? 
I  could  have  told  you  better.  I  would  have  done  very  dif 
ferently.'  " 

"  We  are  getting  away  from  the  subject,"  said  Mrs.  El 
liott,  coolly.  "  Do  you  expect  to  marry  an  angel  ?  I  should 
like  to  know  what  your  expectations  are,  and  what  you  in 
tend  to  do  with  yourself." 

"  I  waut  what  every  one  wants,"  said  Nepenthe.  "  I  want 
a  friend.  I  long  not  for  advice,  counsel,  opinion,  criticism, 
polite  treatment.  A  lawyer,  doctor,  editor,  if  well  paid, 
can  give  me  much  of  all  these.  I  want  something  money 
cannot  buy.  Money  has  great  power.  There  is  a  pleasure 
in  being  surrounded  with  elegancies,  and  being  able  to  be 
stow  gifts  and  favors.  I  am  painfully  sensitive  by  nature 
to  any  defect  in  dress,  furniture,  living.  I  like  draperied 
windows,  downy  carpets,  fine  paintings  and  statuary,  and  I 
do  not  like  this  endless  pinching  and  screwing  and  stretch 
ing  of  things,  to  make  them  go  as  far  as  possible.  I  dislike 
exceedingly  scant  dresses,  shabby  gloves,  patched  or  sole- 
less  gaiters,  ever-to-be  darned  stockings,  dyed  and  turned 
silks,  black  velvet  bonnets  done  over  for  the  tenth  time, 
with  bits  of  withered  lace  and  old  drooping  feathers,  and 
home-made  undersleeves,  of  this  highly  commended  wash- 
illusion,  which  after  once  washing  reminds  one  of  real  illu 
sion.  Those  ironed-over  bonnet  strings,  those  imitation  lace 
collars,  which  once  washed  boast  no  more  the  soft  subdued 
\  look  of  real  honiton,  point  or  Valenciennes  ;  and  then  to 
have  but  one  best  silk  dress,  which  will  always  be  either  too 
light  for  winter  or  too  dark  for  summer  ;  and  then  if  you 
have  one  real  fashionable  dress,  it  makes  all  your  other  old 
things — shawls,  gloves,  bonnets,  look  so  faded  and  passe,  and 
then,  if  to  economize,  one  make  it  oneself,  it  may  set  like  a 
witch,  and  double  or  distort  one's  tolerable  native  dimen 
sions.  It  is  written  all  over  you,  that  you  look  as  well  as 


NEPENTHE.  229 

you  can — and  the  Irish  chambermaid  and  porter  will  leave 
you  to  lift  your  own  luggage  and  carry  your  own  bundles  up 
stairs,  as  they  whisper  to  each  other,  with  a  careless  toss  of 
the  head,  '  0,  she's  not  a  lady — she's  not  nice-dressed  !' 

"  I  never  was  proud  of  costly  dress,  but  I  do  feel  just  a 
little  mortified,  if  shabbily  attired. 

"  Then  I  have  a  longing  to  be  able  with  n\y  purse  to 
bring  out  hidden  talent,  to  elevate  crushed  and  gifted  hu 
manity.  I  might  be  too  proudly  happy  to  have  others  look 
ing  to  me  for  comfort,  for  help,  for  relief.  I  have  often 
closed  my  eyes,  and  imagined  what  I  would  do  if  I  were 
rich  ;  and  I  have,  when  I  gazed  on  suffering,  ragged  hu 
manity,  or  looked  longingly  on  so  many  beautiful  and  pre 
cious  objects,  almost  within  my  grasp,  earnestly  desired 
to  be  able  to  relieve  -the  one  and  obtain  the  other.  I  do  long 
to  be  able  to  be  fed,  housed  and  clad  without  begging,  bor 
rowing,  or  being  under  heavy  obligations  to  any  one.  Yet 
much  as  I  prize  money  for  the  liberty  and  power  it  gives,  I 
will  never  sell  myself  for  it.  I  would  rather  live  on  a 
sanded  floor,  have  only  a  deal  table,  sleep  on  a  hard  bed,  and 
wear  my  great  grandmother's  '  linsey  woolsey  '  dress,  and 
have  no  friend  to  share  my  sorrows  and  feel  my  joys.  I 
must  have  a  friend  to  love  what  I  love,  to  worship  what  I 
worship,  or  be  linked,  by  earthly  tie,  to  no  mortal  man.  I 
prefer  my  own  companionship  to  that  of  one  whose  fine 
horses  and  full  purse  are  his  sole  recommendations." 

"  But  Mr.  Nicholson  has  one  congenial  taste,  he  has  a 
turn  for  poetry,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott.  "  I  have  heard  him  con 
verse  in  quite  a  poetical  strain. '' 

"  One  evening,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  when  we  walked  down 
by  the  cliff,  where  we  have  such  magnificent  sunsets,  I  think 
he  must  have  felt  poetical,  for  I  remarked,  as  he  stood  speech 
less,  that  it  was  a  beautiful  sunset. 

"  '  Yes,  he  replied.  '  Do  you  know  what  it  reminds  me 
of?' 

"  '  No,"  said  I. 

"  '  It  reminds  me  of  the  rose  on  the  cheeks  of  beauty," 
said  he,  in  a  low,  soft  voice.  Just  then  a  cow  came  and 
looked  over  the  fence,  and  mooed  at  us.  '  Oh  !'  said  he, 
'  isn't  that  a  splendid  cow  !  I'd  like  to  own  such  a  fine 
creature  as  that.  I  have  some  cattle  now  in  the  country 


230  NEPENTHE. 

which  I'd  like  to  show  you,  but  I'd  like  to  own  that  crea 
ture.' 

"  While  he  looked  at  the  cow,  I  stood  by  the  cliff  and 
looked  at  the  sky  and  sea,  bathed  in  a  flood  of  sunset  glory. 
He  turned  suddenly,  for  the  cow  had  gone,  and  asked  me  if 
I  thought  he  could  jump  from  the  cliff  without  breaking  his 
neck  ?  I  felt  like  telling  him  to  try. 

"  He  repeated  to  me  one  verse  of  his  poetry  once.  He 
said  he  considered  it  the  best  he  ever  wrote.  I  think  it  ran 
thus  : 

'  Time  goes  on,  he  runs  a  race, 
He  hurries  on,  he  rides  apace; 
Messengers  Time  doth  send, 
Eternity  is  Time  without  end.' 

I  would  like  a  man  just  as  well  if  he  didn't  talk  or  write 
poetry  ;  but  if  he  couldn't  tell  good  verse  from  bad,  or  dis 
tinguish  Byron  from  Watts,  and  was  given  to  whipping  up 
such  syllabub  rhymes,  I  would  prefer  an  incorrigible  dunce, 
who  knew  enough  to  speak  when  spoken  to,  and  leave  such 
poets  as  William  Nicholson,  Esq.  to  marry  his  muse  for  all 
me.  He  knows  no  difference  between  the  flattest  plati 
tudes,  the  tamest  placidities,  and  the  tinkle  of  fairy  music. 
He  asked  me  one  evening  if  I  had  seen  any  of  Mr.  Anon's 
poetry — he  thought  that  Anon  made  the  best  verses  in  the 
language.  He  couldn't  remember  Mr.  Anon's  first  name, 
but  he  was  sure  it  was  Anon  ;  and  if  he  could  find  a  well- 
bound  collection  of  Anon's  poems,  he  would  be  happy  to 
present  them  to  me. 

"  I  told  him  I  would  give  twenty  dollars  for  a  handsome 
copy  of  Anon's  poems,  with  his  full  name  on  the  title  page, 
it  would  be  such  a  rare  book.  At  that  time  he  took  it  into 
his  head  that  I  was  a  great  admirer  of  poetry,  and  all  his 
conversation  had  a  poetical  spice,  flavor  and  turn  ;  but  as  to 
real  taste,  he  would  rather  any  time  see  a  fine  paving  stone, 
than  look  at  Tintern  Abbey  or  the  Hock  of  Gibraltar." 

"  But  you  don't  know  all  Mr.  Nicholson's  excellencies 
yet.  He  has  great  firmness  and  decision  of  character,"  said 
Mrs.  Elliott. 

"  It  doesn't  take  long  to  fathom  a  man  when  there  is  no 
thing  in  him,"  said  Nepenthe.  "  His  vacant  brow  wears  the 
sign,  '  An  apartment  to  let.'  I  know  he  has,  as  you  say, 
great  firmness  and  decision  of  character.  So  has  many  a 


NEPENTHE.  231 

mule  you  meet,  carrying  his  heavy  burden.  He  has  the 
pertinacity,  the  positive  nature  of  a  man  enough  to  carry  his 
point,  and  have  his  own  way,  right  or  wrong  ;  but  he  has 
neither  moral  sense,  enlightened  judgment,  nor  sober  reason 
to  control  that  will.  I  would  as  soon  look  up  to  and  yield 
my  will  to  your  brown  dog,  or  your  gray  cat,  as  to  that  of 
William  Nicholson,  Esq.,  sole  possessor  of  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  well  invested  ;  and  either  of  the  aforesaid 
animals  would  defend  and  help  me  quite  as  well  in  the  path 
of  rectitude  and  happiness,  and  comfort  me  better  in  afflic 
tion.  Indeed  I  would  prefer  a  respectable  bark,* or  a  com 
fortable  purr,  to  his  most  eloquent  strains  of  poetry." 

"  His  manners  are  certainly  gentlemanly,"  indignantly  in 
terrupted  Mrs.  Elliott. 

"  Mr.  Nicholson  has  no  delicacy  of  taste,  no  nobility  of 
character,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  and  why  he  has  chosen  me  I 
know  not — probably  for  the  same  reason  that  he  would  pre 
fer  a  brown  house,  or  a  white  and  black  dog,  to  a  gray  one  ; 
about  tall  enough,  about  large  enough,  about  poor  enough, 
he  says  to  hiifiself,  to  suit  my  superior  size,  and  to  value 
my  superior  wealth. 

"  Were  I  his  wife  I  should  submit  silently  to  things  in 
consistent  and  wrong,  or  resist  his  will  and  wishes  when 
greatly  opposed  to  my  sense  of  right — and  no  true-hearted 
woman  wishes  to  positively  and  frequently  oppose  the  man 
she  calls  her  husband  " 

"  But  you  could  influence  him,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott  :  "  you 
could  gradually  induce  him  to  think  as  you  do — there's  eve 
rything  in  managing  a  husband." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  manage  a  husband — I  have  quite  enough 
to  do  to  manage  myself,"  said  Nepenthe.  "  I  want  a  hus 
band  that  will  fit  me,  not  one  I  have  to  make  over.  So  far 
as  I  can  see,  this  making  husbands  over  is  no  very  easy  bu 
siness  :  like  bread  worked  over  too  much,  they  may  get  sour 
in  the  process.  You  can't  manage  them  as  you  would  a 
horse,  with  bits  of  advice  and  bridles  of  restraint. 

"  The  lords  of  creation  are  apt  to  be  quite  sensitive  on 
this  point — and  even  a  stupid,  ignorant  man  may  find  out, 
as  somebody  will  be  sure  to  tell  him,  that  he  is  the  head  of 
the  house. 

"  I  would  rather  be  managed  than  manage — to  look  up  to 
my  husband,  than  to  be  always  looking  after  his  failings,  en- 


232  NEPENTHE. 

lightening  his  ignorance,  improving  his  morals,  and  smooth 
ing  over  his  mistakes.  .I'd  rather  undertake  to  be  the  gov 
erness  of  forty  children  than  of  one  man  of  Mr.  Nicholson's 
formidable  size  and  indomitable  will." 

"  You  are  getting  exceedingly  nervous  of  late,"  paid  Mrs. 
Elliott,  dignifiedly,  "  you  should  retire  earlier,  be  more 
regular  in  your  habits,  and  avoid  the  excitement  of  compa 
ny.  I  dislike  to  see  a  young  lady  so  excessively  and  disa 
greeably  nervous — you  should  control  yourself." 

"  Nervous !"  said  Nepenthe,  "  I  wish  the  word  were  out 
of  the  wood's  calendar,  it  is  so  convenient.  Men  and  women 
too  call  everything  they  can't  comprehend, '  nervous.'  What 
dictionary  defines  half  of  its  allowed  meanings  ?  '  Easily 
agitated,  a  colloquial  use  of  the  word,'  says  Webster  :  but 
not  a  groan  is  uttered,  a  sympathy  expressed,  impulse  acted 
upon,  anxiety  endured,  or  accident  befallen,  but  there'll  be 
some  cool  mortals  standing  by,  watching  the  style  of  the 
groan,  the  form  of  the  sob,  and  to  see  how  hard  she  takes  it, 
as  they  shake  their  wise  heads  and  exclaim  emphatically,  '0, 
she's  nervous — dreadful  nervous.'  If  any  oner  is  quite  ill, 
there'll  be  hundreds  of  people  to  say  '  0,  there's  nothing  the 
matter,  it's  one  of  her  nervous  spells  ;'  and  if  the  nature  of 
the  disease  baffles  the  doctor's  knowledge  and  skill,  he'll  be 
sure  to  say  to  the  attentive  nurse,  '  I  think  it  is  only  a  ner 
vous  difficulty,  Madame.'  And  still  human  nature  grieves 
on,  and  sometimes  wails  and  dies  after  long  continued  pres 
sure  of  agnny.  So  long  as  its  depths  are  stirred,  its  surface 
will  be  agitated. 

"  The  great  deep  of  a  loving,  suffering  heart  must  at  times 
be  broken  up,  and  tears  must  fall,  sighs  swell  upwards,  and 
sobs  break  forth.  When  the  storm  comes  and  the  clouds 
gather,  the  deep  billows  of  the  soul  must  heave  and  swell, 
and  subside,  and  he  who  stands  on  the  shore  of  comfort  with 
dry  feet  looking  on,  will  mockingly  say,  '  How  nervous  ! — 
did  you  ever  see  anybody  so  nervous  ?  You  should  control 
yourself.' 

"  Many  a  discouraged  woman  toils  on  with  pale  cheek  and 
fading  eye,  while  man  says  there's  nothing  the  matter,  only 
she's  getting  nervous — while  from  her  heart,  beating  fainter 
and  fainter,  goes  up  to  the  Ear  ever  open  on  high,  a  silent 
testimony  of  patient,  unrequited  struggle,  and  uncheered, 
unappreciated  toil. 


NEPENTHE.  233 

"  Who  reproaches  the  ocean  for  its  restless  heaving,  its 
roaring  and  wild  dashing  against  the  shore,  and  who  shall 
hardly  reproach,  when  deep  answereth  unto  deep  within  the 
human  heart,  till  its  stirred  sympathies  dash  wildly  against 
the  shore  of  life.  As  well  call  the  tempestuous  ocean  ner 
vous,  as  the  impulsive,  heaving  heart." 

"  You  cure  nervous,"  repeated  Mrs.  Elliott;  "  and  what  is 
very  unfortunate  for  a  person  of  nervous  temperament,  you 
must  have  read  a  great  many  novels.  Pray  where  is  tho 
site  of  your  love  in  a  cottage,  and  who  is  the  hero  of  your 
dreams  ?  Is  he  to  come  from  the  greenwood,  and  you  live 
together  so  comfortably  on  the  balmy  air  ?  Air  plants  have 
sometimes  no  root.  This  airy  home  and  airy  lover  of  yours 
may  never  have  root  or  foundation  on  mortal  soil.  Some 
singing  minstrel  or  limping  poet  perhaps  already  claims  the 
honor  of  your  hand,  and  the  first  place  in  your  so  highly 
valuable  and  priceless  heart." 

"  One  has  long  since  had  place  in  my  heart,"  said  Ne 
penthe,  coolly.  "  His  words  will  never  leave  my  soul — he 
has  been  domesticated  by  my  heart's  fireside  a  long  time  :  I 
could  hardly  do  without  him.  He  was  the  first  to  tell  me 
long  ago,  when  in  deep  trouble  to  suffer  and  be  strong. 
When  I  think  of  his  peerless,  consoling  intellect,  I  am  al 
ways  reminded  of  footsteps  of  angels.  My  acquaintance 
with  him  has  been  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  my  life. 
He  is  a  poet,  a  true  poet  ;  his  words  are  always  beautiful 
and  appropriate,  whether  he  talks  to  me  by  the  fireside  in 
winter,  or  wanders  with  me  by  the  seaside  in  summer  :  he 
has  taught  me  the  beautiful  language  of  resignation,  and  I 
often  feel  when  all  alone  '  a  part  of  the  self-same  universal 
being'  which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart." 

"  Where  did  you  become  acquainted  with  this  paragon  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Elliott  sneeringly,  "  and  what  is  his  name  V" 

"  His  name  is  Henry,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  and  I  became 
acquainted  with  him  at  first  at  Dr.  Wendon's.  He  intro 
duced  him  to  me  one  evening  while  in  the  library.  He  al 
ways  chooses  the  poet's  corner,  and  I  must  frankly  acknow 
ledge  he  is  as  near  my  beau  ideal  as  any  living  man — that 
is,  so  far  as  I  know  him.  Since  that  first  introduction,  after 
his  pleasant  prelude  to  our  first  pleasant  interview,  he  was 
very  often  my  companion.  He  pleased  my  understanding 


234  NEPENTHE. 

as  much  as  he  captivated  my  fancy.  He  has  filled  my  soul 
with  dreams. 

"  Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 

Ere  Fancy  hath  been  quelled  ; 
Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page, 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 
And  chronicles  of  Eld." 

"  Your  head  is  full  enough  of  such  things  now,  without 
his  filling  it  any  more,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  really  relieved  to 
find  Nepenthe  had  some  one  in  view.  "  But  his  name  is 
Henry,  you  say — no  very  romantic  name.  Pray  what  is  the 
other  name  of  this  beau  ideal  of  yours  ?" 

"  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,"  said  Nepenthe  slowly 
and  distinctly.  "  He  is  the  hero  of  my  imagination.  I  hope 
you  may  know  him  some  day  as  well  as  I  do — and  long  as 
his  name  is,  may  his  shadow  never  be  less.  I  owe  a  great 
deal  to  him.  Come  some  time  into  my  room,  and  I  will 
tell  you  something  he  says.  I  should  never  get  tired  of  him 
though  he  said  the  same  thing  over  to  me  every  day.  I 
found  out  from  him  that 

'  Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest,' 

— and  each  day  I  feel  more  deeply  the  force  of  his  great 
thought." 

"  You  can  marry  whom  and  when  you  please,"  said  Mrs. 
Elliott,  rising  indignantly,  "  I  shall  give  you  no  longer  sup 
port  or  shelter.  Your  foolishly  indulgent  patron  and  friend 
is  now  on  a  foreign  shore,  and  you  may  yet  reap  the  bitter 
reward  of  your  ingratitude  and  folly." 

Mrs.  Elliott  came  back  again  with  flashing  eye,  indignant 
look,  and  elevated  tone,  to  say,  "  You  are  hypocritical  with 
all  your  well-put-on  amiability  ;  you  havn't  the  least  sense 
of  right,  and  are  very  headstrong." 

Mrs.  Elliott  went  out  again,  giving  the  door  a  most  em 
phatic  close,  till  every  window  in  the  house  shook. 

"  I  am  not  hypocritical,"  thought  Nepenthe,  as  she  walk 
ed  back  and  forth  in  an  excited  manner.  "  Why  is  it  such 
a  terrible  thing  to  have  a  way  or  a  will  of  one's  own.  The 
flower  raises  or  droops  its  head  to  suit  its  nature,  the  vine 
clasps  its  tendrils  in  some  native  fashion.  Why  can't  each 
heart,  which  has  so  many  wild  throbbings,  and  resistless 
willings,  have  sometimes  its  way  ?  Its  inward  bias,  its  at- 


NEPENTHE.  235 

tractions  are  native  and  strong  as  the  clasp  of  the  vine's 
tendril. 

"  The  heart  needs  no  bruising,  no  breaking — only  pure 
air  and  clear  light,  and  it  will  struggle  up  and  blossom  into 
beauty.  '  Headstrong  !'  '  headstrong  !'  I  hate  that  word 
'  headstrong.'  I  wish  some  autocrat  would  define  the  boun 
dary  of  that  disputed  territory,  that  '  unseen  spiritual  fence' 
between  independent  principle  and  stubborn  obstinacy. 

"  Mrs.  Elliott  is  one  of  those  who  always  thinks  her  opin 
ion  correct  principle,  wholesome  advice,  and  mine  is  stub 
born  obstinacy.  How  human  nature  gets  pulled  and  hauled, 
and  mauled  and  scolded,  and  driven  like  an  ugly  bear  or  a 
fiery  horse — to  gratify  somebody's  principle,  or  sense  of 
right  !  That  '  sense  of  right'  has  so  many  shapes  and  forms 
I  begin  to  think  it  is  a  myth,  or  one  of  the  lost  senses.  Mrs. 
Elliott  might  as  well  set  the  springs  and  wheels  and  com 
plicated  machinery  of  her  clock  in  order,  by  going  at  it 
with  hammer  and  tongs,  as  to  take  the  feelings  of  the  heart 
by  storm.  Oh,  if  the  right  hand  could  take  the  right  key, 
and  carefully  wind  at  the  keyhole  of  the  heart,  the  secret 
spring  of  feeling  would  be  moved  ;  brain,  will,  nerve,  and 
sense  would  act  in  harmony — the  big  wheels  of  thought 
would  keep  good  time,  and  the  busy  hands  move  tirelessly 
around  the  circle  of  care.  Then  we  wouldn't  always  be 
getting  out  of  order,  running  down,  or  standing  still.  Bom 
bard  the  castle  of  the  will,  stormed  and  starved  and  be 
sieged,  it  is  monarch  still,  and  no  sharp  words  shall  tack 
down  basting  threads  for  the  guiding  of  its  lordly  way  over 
the  carpet  of  destiny." 

This  was  only  a  burst  of  indignation — it  was  not  the  out- 
gushing  of  Nepenthe's  true  nature  ;  like  a  tired  child,  she 
felt  like  sobbing  herself  to  sleep  in  a  mother's  arms.  She 
never  could  battle  or  contend  ;  the  effort  was  painful,  the 
reaction  depressing.  The  lancet  and  probe  of  reproof  were 
never  fit  for  her  gentle  nature — but  the  wine  and  oil  of 
healing,  and  the  balm  and  benediction  of  sympathy.  Every 
great  heart  has  a  throb  of  its  own,  every  great  will  has  a 
will  of  its  own. 

Dispirited  and  sad  after  this  long  and  tiresome  interview 
with  Mrs.  Elliott,  Nepenthe  sits  alone  and  thinks. 

That  roof  had  been  to  her  no  home  but  a  shelter,  and  now 
she  had  no  shelter.  She  took  up  a  book  from  the  table,  ac- 


236  NEPENTHE. 

cidentally  left  there  that  morning  by  Florence.  It  was  Shir- 
ley.  Nepenthe  had  never  read  it.  She  turns  its  pages 
carelessly  over,  and  opens  at  last  the  chapter  giving  an  ac 
count  of  the  interview  of  Shirley  Keeldar  with  Mr.  Simpson, 
who  tries  to  find  who  she  loves.  She  is  pleased  to  see  any 
resemblance  between  her  situation  and  the  fortunate  Shir 
ley. 

"  Oh,  if  I  were  only  rich  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  could  be 
more  independent.  The  heart  is  the  same  everywhere. 
Every  human  heart  is  human,  but  who  shall  conquer  its 
love,  or  quell  its  hate  ?  This  secret  of  my  love  shall  never 
escape  me  by  any  ordeal.  It  shall  not  be  dragged  out  and 
burned  at  the  stake  of  ridicule.  I  will  hoard  and  bide  it  in 
the  safe  of  my  heart,  and  no  burglar  toague  or  assassin  hand 
shall  force  the  lock.  He  who  has  the  key  alone  shall  open 
the  safe,  or  the  secret  shall  die  with  me  ;  and  in  heaven, 
where  kindred  souls  like  stars  cluster  together,  my  soul  may 
find  its  twin  wanderer.  Here  this  love  can  never  go  back 
in  my  heart  and  die. 

'  As  if  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again.'  " 

Florence  Elliott's  love  for  Carleyn  was  becoming  the  rul 
ing  passion  of  her  life.  Madame  Future  had  lain  aside  her 
veil  and  talked  with  her  face  to  face. 

Florence  would  once  have  spurned  the  idea  of  seeking  or 
receiving  such  counsel ;  she  went  at  first  out  of  curiosity — 
now  it  had  become  a  passion,  the  woman  seemed  really  to 
enter  heart  and  soul  into  her  cherished  plans. 

It  was  an  avowed  opinion  of  Florence's,  that  it  was  no 
greater  sin  to  express  wrong  than  to  feel  wrong  :  she  be 
lieved  in  expressing  what  she  felt,  if  convenient.  Her  love 
and  pride  were  both  gratified  in  receiving  attentions  from 
the  distinguished  young  Carleyn.  She  was  becoming  more 
and  more  beautiful  since  her  first  consultation  with  Madame 
Future,  whose  directions  she  implicitly  followed.  Through 
her,  Florence  had  found  out  Carleyn's  private  tastes,  likes, 
and  dislikes. 

He  loved  poetry,  flowers,  and  simple  dress,  and  these 
tastes  she  cultivated  most  assiduously — buying  poetry,  sur 
rounding  herself  with  rare  flowers,  and  wearing  them  as 
her  only  ornament  in  her  beautiful  hair,  and  she  dressed 
with  the  most  elegant  simplicity. 


NEPENTHE.  237 

Many  marvelled  at  the  great  change  in  her  style  of  dress. 
To  Carleyn's  dazzled  eyes  she  seemed  like  a  radiant  vision. 
How  pleasant  to  have  such  a  beautiful  wife  for  a  living 
model ! 

She  sat  alone  in  her  room  one  evening,  after  her  return 
from  a  party,  and  recalled  his  every  look,  word  and  tone,  as 
she  thought,  "  How  pleasant  to  have  him  watch  my  face,  and 
say,  '  There,  that's  a  beautiful  expression — I'll  put  that 
down  ;'  and  then  to  find  another  beautiful  expression,  and 
put  that  down — to  have  him  trot  ail  these  expressions  about 
in  his  head,  till  at  last  he  comes  out  with  a  beautiful  fin 
ished  portrait — to  have  my  portrait  sent  to  the  Academy  of 
Design,  as  in  the  possession  of  the  artist,  Frank  Carleyn — 
No.  101 — and  go  myself,  and  have  admiring  visitors  ask 
whose  it  was — and  have  some  one  tell  them,  '  It  is  the  art 
ist's  beautiful  wife' — '  The  artist's  bride  ' — that  sounds 

well.  Yes,  I  will  be  his  wife,"  she  said,  "  or  " and  she 

arose,  walked  back  and  forth  in  great  excitement,  and  then 
paused  a  moment  before  the  mirror.  "  Thank  God,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  I  am  beautiful — my  features  are  perfect,  my 
form  symmetrical." 

Madam  Future,  divested  of  sybillistic  dress,  manners, 
tone,  surroundings,  dark  curtains,  obscure  lights,  colored 
vials,  charms,  glasses — elaborately  and  elegantly  arrayed, 
sometimes  goes  into  society.  She  loves  solitude  best,  but  it 
suits  well  her  purposes  and  plans  to  enter  sometimes  the 
crowded  salon,  musicale  soiree  and  reception.  If  she  stoops 
to  mingle  with  the  common  throng,  as  she  calls  society,  it  is 
to  fathom  some  mystery  in  its  secret  net-work,  to  find  out 
some  plot  or  counterplot,  and  thus  gain  some  charm  or  coun 
ter-charm. 

You  might  look  in  many  a  face,  and  meet  no  such  eye  as 
Madam  Future's.  If  it  rested  upon  you,  you  felt  as  if  under 
the  full  blaze  of  a  brilliant  chandelier,  as  if  every  salient 
point  in  your  character  were  illuminated.  Her  look  seemed 
to  fathom  you — her  eyes  burned  like  consumeless  fires.  If 
eyes  fade  that  weep  long,  no  tears  had  dimmed  her  eyes. 
No,  she  never  wept.  The  fount  of  tears  had  dried  long 
since.  Every  sorrow  she  had  known,  every  disappointment 
felt,  had  only  formed  some  strange  accretion  round  her 
heart.  That  heart  never  melted  to  tears.  Gathering  years 
of  ossification,  it  turned  to  stone.  As  her  tears  froze  away, 


238  NEPENTHE. 

her  revenge  grew  and  burned  and  fed  itself  within  her  heart. 
She  said  she  never  in  her  whole  life  had  been  deceived  but 
once. 

The  next  evening  after  the  party,  Florence  was  guided 
by  an  unknown  hand,  through  the  dark,*up  many  flights  of 
stairs,  into  a  circular  room,  where  all  the  lights  were  extin 
guished.  Looking  through  a  long  glass  properly  adjusted 
by  Madam  Future,  she  said,  "  I  see  a  room — a  clock  on  the 
mantel.  I  can  plainly  see  the  hand  pointing  to  eight. 
There's  a  vase  of  flowers,  and  there  are  rare  books  on  the 
table — and  there  is  Carleyn  reading,  and  Nepenthe  Stuart 
sits  at  work  by  the  table.  She  is  knitting  something — it 
looks  like  a  chain.  He  stops  reading,  looks  up  and  talks. 
Now  he  smiles — reads  on  again.  She  is  looking  up,  and 
asks  some  question.  They  stand  at  the  window  together — 
he  points  upward. 

"  Yes,"  thought  Florence,  "  I  suppose  he  pays  her  some 
slight  attentions  out  of  pity,  she  tries  so  hard  to  interest 
him." 

"  Contrive,"  said  Florence,  "  to  whisper,  or  to  have  whis 
pered  these  words  into  Carleyn's  ear  :  '  Low  family,  doubt 
ful  origin.'  Say  also,  '  She  is  engaged  to  Mr.  Nicholson.'  ' 

"  Yes,"  said  Madam  Future,  taking  the  piece  of  gold 
from  Florence's  hand,  "  there'll  be  a  bal  masque  on  Wed 
nesday  evening — I'll  be  there — I  can  tell  him  something 
that  will  make  him  think." 

Carleyn  sat  alone  in  his  room,  with  a  copy  of  Hyperion  in 
his  hand.  He  had  borrowed  it  from  Florence  Elliott. 
Turning  the  pages  carelessly,  half  a  sheet  of  folded  note 
paper  fell  out.  There  were  on  it  a  few  verses  written 
faintly  with  a  pencil.  They  were  in  Florence  Elliott's  hand. 
He  had  heard  her  say  one  evening,  that  she  had  a  careless 
habit  of  leaving  things  in  books  very  often,  much  to  her 
mortification  afterwards.  The  verses  were  signed  '  F.  E.' 

"  Florence  has  deeper  feeling  and  nobler  conception  than 
I  have  given  her  credit  for,"  thought  Mr.  Carleyn,  as  he 
read  the  poetry  carefully  over.  "  Her  few  defects  may  be 
owing  to  early  indulgence,  and  her  great  beauty  ;  and  she 
loves  flowers  too.  How  beautifully  she  arranges  them.  I 
am  always  sure,  if  a  person  can  write  one  good  poem,  he  is 
capable  of  writing  more,  many  more,  if  excited  by  any  deep 
emotion  or  powerful  feeling.  If  there  is  any  pure  gold  of 


NEPENTHE.  239 

thought  discovered  in  the  soul,  there  must  be  a  valuable 
mine  somewhere  in  the  spiritual  strata." 

Florence  resolved  to  go  to  the  great  reception  the  next 
evening,  charmingly  dressed,  and  determined,  if  possible, 
to  fasten  the  chain  she  was  quite  sure  she  was  firmly  rivet- 
ting.  Never  did  she  bestow  such  pains  upon  her  toilet, 
never  linger  so  long  at  the  mirror.  Never  was  her  hair  so 
artistically  arranged.  Never  did  her  cheek  bloom  rosier, 
her  eye  flash  brighter,  never  were  her  lips  rubier,  or  her 
voice  sweeter.  There  was  not  a  touch  to  add,  a  charm  to 
give,  as  she  threw  her  snowy  opera  cloak  over  her  fair 
shoulders,  and  went  forth  to  the  final  conquest. 

Madam  Future,  splendidly  arrayed,  went  also.  You 
could  hardly  know  her,  so  transformed  by  elegant  and  fash 
ionable  dress.  Her  long,  wavy  hair,  beautifully  arranged, 
gave  her  at  least  a  stylish  appearance,  as  she  moved  with 
high  bred  ease  among  the  crowd. 

Any  high-minded,  ideal-loving  man,  to  gaze  on  Florence 
Elliott's  lovely  exterior,  "would  say,  she  is  a  lovely  woman, 
a  true  soul  and  pure  heart,  must  glow  in  such  radiant  eyes, 
and  inspire  such  beautiful  lips  ! 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   MUSIC    BOOK    OPEN   AT    THE    WRONG   PLACE. 

"  There  should  be  no  despair  for  you 

While  nightly  stars  are  burning ; 

While  evening  pours  its  silent  dew, 

And  sunshine  gilds  the  morning. 

"  There  should  be  no  despair,  though  tears 

May  flow  down  like  a  river ; 
Are  not  the  best  beloved  of  years  • 
Around  your  heart  forever  ?" — EMILY  BRONTE. 

THE  party  given  by  Mrs.  Norwood  was  attended  by  nearly 
two  thousand  persons.  The  entire  house  was  thrown  open 
for  the  entertainment  of  the  guests.  The  first  floor  was  de 
voted  to  dancing,  the  band  being  in  the  hall.  In  the  pic 
ture  gallery  the  panorama  was  kept  moving  in  the  evening. 
The  upper  floors  were  arranged  for  conversation,  whist,  &c. 
The  basement  to  refreshments,  billiards  and  bowling.  The 


240  NEPENTHE. 

large  number  of  carriages  which  thronged  the  streets  made 
access  to  the  house  tedious  and  difficult.  The  whistle  of  the 
outside  guard,  as  usual,  announced  arrivals,  which  caused 
the  doors  to  open  as  the  visitors  approached. 

They  had  all  gone  to  the  party  at  Mrs.  Norwood's — fash 
ionable  belles,  and  exquisite  beaux,  matrons  and  maidens, 
were  already  promenading,  chatting,  dancing  in  those  bril 
liant  parlors. 

It  was  a  cool  autumn  night.  The  wind  had  a  sound  of 
winter,  and  the  sky  was  dark  and  gloomy.  Nepenthe  sat 
alone  in  Mrs.  Elliott's  large  parlor,  looking  drearily  out 
through  the  half-open  shutters.  It  was  her  birth-day  night. 
A  strange  feeling  of  restlessness  came  over  her,  a  disgust 
of  books,  of  work,  of  solitude,  a  longing  for  social  life.  The 
measured  ticking  of  the  clock  was  poor  relief  to  the  undis 
turbed  stillness  reigning  throughout  the  house.  Nepenthe's 
usual  quiet,  contented  manner,  was  gone.  She  paced  rest 
lessly  back  and  forth  upon  the  downy  carpet. 

"  I  am  alone,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  I  love  music — I  love 
society.  How  I  would  prize  one  heart  that  really  loved  me. 
0,  if  I  only  had  a  mother,  a  sister,  or  even  one  friend  !  Is 
life  always  to  be  a  game  in  which  I  can  take  no  part  ?  How 
grateful  I  would  be  for  the  crumbs  of  happiness  that  fall 
from  the  bountiful  table  of  others'  lives.  And  now  I  have 
no  home — I  know  not  where  to  go  to-morrow.  And  /  am 
called  Nepenthe — strange  name  for  me,  who  am  to  drink  the 
cup  of  loneliness  and  sorrow  to  the  dregs." 

Nepenthe  walked  to  the  window,  and  a  few  large  drops  of 
the  rapidly  gathering  shower  fell  on  the  window-sill.  She 
approached  the  piano  and  seated  herself,  to  pour  forth,  half 
unconsciously,  her  murmuring  in  song — singing,  as  she 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  music  book  : 

"  I  feel  like  one  who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet  hall  deserted." 

With  eyes  swimming  with  tears,  she  saw  at  the  bottom  of 
one  of  the  pages,  these  words,  sung  so  beautifully  by 
Dempster  : 

"  Be  still,  sad  heart,  and  cease  repining ; 
Behind  the  cloud  is  the  sxm,  still  shiring. 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 
Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary." 


NEPENTHE.  241 

Nepenthe  sang  it  all  through,  with  exquisite  pathos.  She 
pause-d,  almost  choked  with  tears,  as  the  rising  wind  seemed 
to  whisper  forth  its  wild  chorus  : 

"  My  heart  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  past, 
The  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary." 

Before  her  suddenly  stood  a  vision — no,  not  a  vision,  hut 
a  tall  manly  form,  and  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  were  gazing  at  her 
with  a  surprised,  embarrassed  look. 

"  I  thought  you  were  at  Mrs.  Norwood's,  Mr.  Carleyn," 
Baid  she,  equally  surprised  and  embarrassed,  as  she  uttered 
the  first  thought  that  came  in  her  head. 

"  I  am  going  to  Europe  to-morrow,"  said  he,  after  talking 
with  her  a  few  minutes. 

"  I  wish  you  '  bon  voyage,'  said  Nepenthe,  after  an  awk 
ward  pause,  with  a  few  remarks  upon  the  rapidly  improving 
facilities  for  travelling,  he  left,  intending  to  set  sail  the  next 
day. 

"  He  came  hoping  to  find  Florence  at  home,  I  presume," 
said  Nepenthe,  as  she  sat  on  the  sofa  with  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands.  "  He  may  be  absent  two  years,  feasting  upon 
beautiful  sights,  enchanted  with  bright  eyes  and  graceful 
forms.  He  will  forget  me  entirely.  But  how  weak  I  am  ! 
He  has  never  thought  of  me,  while  he  is  the  only  ideal  of 
manly  goodness  I  have  known." 

She  had  controlled  herself  so  long,  now  she  would  give 
way  to  her  feelings. 

"  If  any  one  calls,  say  I  am  engaged,"  she  said  to  Mar 
garet,  as  she  closed  the  door  and  shut  herself  in  the  parlor 
alone. 

Margaret  walked  quietly  out,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  out  of  the  front  door,  when  Mr.  Carleyn  came  up 
the  steps  again,  saying, 

"  I  left  a  small  package  in  the  parlor." 

"  Walk  in,  sir,"  said  she,  opening  the  door  a  little  wider  ; 
"  she  is  in  there." 

The  little  package  had  remained  undisturbed  on  the  cor 
ner  of  the  sofa.     He  heard   as  he   opened  the   door  a  sup 
pressed  sob,  and  the  words,  "  I  wish  I  had  never  been" 
The  sentence  was  unfinished,  as  Nepenthe  started  up  with 
tearful  eyes  and  sad  face. 

11 


242  NEPENTHE. 

"  I  beg  pardon  for  intruding,  but  I  came  back  for  this 
little  package,"  said  Carleyn. 

He  seemed  agitated,  yet  drew  near  the  sofa  and  sat  down. 
"  I  find  you  in  some  sudden  sorrow,"  said  he.  "  Propriety, 
perhaps,  would  induce  me  to  withdraw  silently  ;  and  yet, 
though  I  know  not  the  cause  of  your  sorrow,  1  know  you  are 
a  woman,  with  a  woman's  heart.  I  came  here  to  bid  " 

As  he  said  this,  the  door  opened  again,  and  in  walked 
William  Nicholson,  Esq.,  with  bland  smile,  new  neck-tie, 
new  suit  of  shining  broadcloth,  new  patent  leathers,  and  a 
boquet  of  such  size,  color  and  shape,  as  to  remind  one » of  a 
fresh  cauliflower  as  it  comes  from  the  market. 

Margaret  went  down  into  the  kitchen,  and  told  Bridget 
she  was  sure  Mr.  Nicholson  had  come  courting  this  time,  he 
was  so  fixed  up — "  and  then  he  had  such  a  big  bunch  of 
flowers." 

Nepenthe  was  certainly  surprised  and  sorry  that  on  this 
particular  evening  he  had  done  her  this  particular  honor  ; 
and  then  the  truth  flashed  upon  her  mind  that  Mrs.  Elliott 
had  probably  concealed  from  him  her  recent  positive  refusal 
of  his  very  flattering  proposal. 

Taking  it  for  granted  that  such  an  offer  would  soon  be 
gratefully  accepted,  he  had  the  air  and  manner  of  an  ac 
knowledged  lover — treating  Carleyn  as  if  he  of  course,  in 
this  interview,  should  have  the  advantage  in  claiming,  and 
the  preference  in  giving  Nepenthe  attention.  Seeing  the 
piano  open,  he  asked  for  some  music. 

Nepenthe,  perplexed,  vexed,  and  distressed,  was  glad  to 
play  and  sing  to  relieve  her  embarrassment.  He  wished 
her  to  sing  "  Thou,  thou  reign'st  in  this  Bosom  ;"  but  she 
told  him  she  couldn't  sing  it  without  the  music. 

While  she  was  singing  a  sweet  Scotch  song,  Margaret 
came  in  very  unceremoniously  with  a  basket  of  flowers,  say- 
ing,  "  Here  are  the  flowers  Miss  Florence  wished  you  to  ar 
range  for  the  table  to-morrow." 

Putting  them  aside,  Nepenthe  sang  a  few  songs,  played  a 
few  difficult  pieces,  and  then  left  the  piano  and  commenced 
arranging  the  flowers — finding  it  extremely  difficult  to  en 
tertain  two  such  visitors  at  the  same  time. 

•'  When  I  see  flowers,"  said  Carleyn,  "  I  am  reminded  of 
the  first  boquet  I  ever  owned.  1  Was  a  little  boy  then,  and 
on  a  visit  to  my  uncle  in  the  city.  He  always  indulged  me 


NEPENTHE.  243 

in  every  wish,  and  on  my  birth-day  offered  to  do  anything 
to  please  me.  We  took  a  walk  in  Broadway.  We  went  to 
a  florist's,  and  he  bought  me  a  beautiful  bouquet.  There 
were  a  great  many  heliotropes  and  violets,  mingled  with 
other  flowers.  I  was  delighted  with  the  flowers — and  then 
I  coaxed  him  to  take  me  to  see  the  hospital — the  place  he 
had  so  often  visited.  I  often  wondered  what  became  of  the 
little  pale  girl  I  saw  there.  She  had  dark  brown  hair,  and 
large  dark  eyes.  She  was  so  thin  and  pale,  she  really  looked 
unearthly,  with  her  face  lighted  up  with  those  large  dark 
eyes." 

"  What  did  you  do  with  the  flowers  ?"  said  Nepenthe, 
without  seeming  to  notice  the  last  remark. 

"  I  laid  them  on  the  little  girl's  pillow  as  I  came  away," 
said  Carleyn.  "  Poor  child,  I  knew  she  could  have  very 
few  flowers  in  the  hospital,  and  then,  poor  thing,  I  felt  sorry 
for  her.  She  was  in  the  care  of  a  cross-looking  nurse.  I 
know  I  wouldn't  want  such  eyes  to  watch  me  if  I  were  sick." 

Nepenthe  said  nothing  more,  and  Mr.  Nicholson  looked 
bewildered,  as  if  the  conversation  had  taken  a  strange  turn. 
"  I  hope  it  will  be  fair  to-morrow,  Miss  Nepenthe,"  said  he, 
(he  had  never  called  her  Miss  Nepenthe  before,)  "  and  then 
we'll  have  a  nice  ride.  I  want  you  to  see  my  new  horses." 

Nepenthe  had  lost  all  her  quickness  of  thought,  so  she  said 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing  to  this  last  remark. 

Both  gentlemen  soon  after  left,  and  Florence  and  Mrs. 
Elliott  came  home  about  ten  o'clock.  Not  finding  Carleyn 
at  the  reception,  Florence  had  no  wish  to  stay. 

That  evening  was  the  first  time  Nepenthe  had  sung  or 
played  since  she  came  to  Mrs.  Elliott's,  and  Florence  had 
no  idea  that  she  had  any  musical  skill,  taste  or  knowledge. 

"  How  strange,"  thought  Florence,  as  she  came  in  the 
parlor,  after  Neponthe  had  gone  up  to  her  room.  "  The 
piano  is  open,  and  here  is  a  song  I  never  sing — and  it  is  a 
song  Frank  Carleyn  was  asking  me  to  sing  only  the  other 
day.  I  was  going  to  learn  it,  and  was  practicing  it  before  I 
went  out ;  but  I  am  quite  sure  I  put  it  up,  and  that  I  left  a 
waltz  on  the  piano." 

Ringing  the  bell  violently,  and  summoning  Margaret, 
she  said,  in  an  excited  tone,  "  Margaret,  has  any  one  been 
here  this  evening  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Margaret,  frightened  ;  "  nobody  but  Mr.  Car- 


244  NEPENTHE. 

leyn.  You  know  I  always  let  him  in.  I  thought  he  would 
wait  until  you  came  home." 

"  You  know  I  told  you  to  let  no  one  in  when  I  was  out." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  out  at  first,  ma'am,  and  after 
wards  I  looked  up  stairs  and  down,  and  then  I  knew  you 
must  be  out." 

"  Well,  what  did  he  say  ?" 

"  He  said  he  would  wait  awhile,  ma'am." 

Florence  Elliott  was  not  a  fine  singer,  though  she  played 
well  ;  and  she  knew  the  song  upon  the  piano  was  one  of  his 
favorites. 

"  A  little  after  he  came  in,"  said  Margaret,  "  I  heard  the 
piano,  and  some  one  singing  ;  so  I  thought  you  must  be  at 
home." 

"  Are  you  sure,  Margaret,  that  it  was  my  piano  ?  Wasn't 
it  the  piano  next  door  ?  Are  you  sure  no  lady  has  been 
here  ?  Mary  Hume  comes  sometimes  and  plays  when  I  am 
gone,  and  she  always  sings  these  sweet  songs.  She  touches 
the  keys  and  hums  a  little,  and  often  looks  over  the  music  ; 
but  she  glides  in  and  glides  out  again,  like  a  little  fairy." 

"  There's  been  no  one  in  the  parlor  this  evening,"  said 
Margaret,  "  but  Miss  Stuart  and  Mr.  Carleyn." 

Somehow  these  names  didn't  sound  pleasantly  together 
in  Florence's  ears. 

"  Margaret,"  said  she. 

"  Ma'am  ?" 

"  Never  let  Mr.  Carleyn  in  again  when  I  am  out." 

"  You  have  often  told  me,  ma'am,  when  he  called,  to  let 
him  wait ;  and  I  really  thought  at  first  you  were  in." 

Florence  walked  back  and  forth,  excited  and  angry.  This 
was  the  first  suspicion  she  had  had  of  Nepenthe  Stuart's 
ability  to  sing  and  play.  "  Pretty  business,"  said  she,  "  Ne 
penthe  Stuart's  singing  and  playing  for  Frank  Carleyn. 
She  is  always  out  of  the  room  when  I  am  homeland  he  calls, 
and  I  always  meant  she  should  be.  It  is  a  complete  ruse. 
The  hypocrite  !  Then  to  think  I  told  him  she  sewed  for  us, 
intimating  that  she  was  a  seamstress.  He'll  begin  to  think 
there's  some  mystery  about  this,  and  mystery  will  excite  a 
man's  curiosity  any  day.  As  for  singing,  I  never  knew  she 
could  sing." 

"  How  came  Nepenthe  Stuart  to  be  in  the  parlor?"  she 
said,  an  hour  after,  to  her  mother. 


NEPENTHE.  245 

"  I  wished  her  to  sit  there,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  "  while  we 
were  gone.  Since  that  silver  was  stolen  the  other  evening, 
I  feel  a  little  uneasy  if  I  go  out  and  leave  the  parlors  alone. 
The  truth  is,  I  am  afraid  that  Bridget  is  not  quite  honest." 

Florence  Elliott  had  a  new  reason  for  disliking  Nepenthe. 
No  one,  not  even  a  child,  should  come  between  her  and  her 
plans.  "  Sing  for  him  ? — how  dared  she  ?" 

Poor  innocent  Nepenthe  !  Once  more,  in  angry  tones, 
she  heard  Florence  and  her  mother  talking  in  French, 
and  she  was  the  subject  of  their  harsh  reproach.  "  How 
dared  she  sing  and  play,  in  my  absence,  for  Carleyn1?"  she 
heard  repeated  in  loud  and  angry  tones. 

"  Did  Miss  Stuart  remain  long  in  the  parlor  after  Mr. 
Carleyn  came  in  ?"  she  asked  of  Margaret  the  next  day. 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am.  I  only  went  in  once,  to  ask  her 
to  arrange  those  flowers  you  bade  me  tell  her  to  fix  to  send 
to  the  fair  to-morrow.  I  didn't  know  he  was  there  then,  or 
I  shouldn't  have  gone  in.  She  arranged  them,  and  they  are 
all  ready  for  you,  in  the  parlor." 

"  How  provoking  !"  thought  Florence  again.  "  He  is  al 
ways  complimenting  me  about  my  taste  in  arranging  flowers. 
Now  he'll  think  of  course  Nepenthe  Stuart  does  it  all.  These 
men  only  want  a  few  things  to  find  out  more.  I'd  have 
given  a  great  deal  not  to  have  had  him  know  about  those 
flowers.  He  is  so  fond  of  flowers,  and  says  so  much  about 
their  artistic  arrangement.  Well  as  I  know  Frank  Carleyn, 
he  is  so  true  himself  he  never  suspects  any  one — but  once 
show  him  a  little  cause,  a  little  deceit,  and  he  will  suspect 
everything.  Drop  one  stitch  in  the  chain  of  such  a  man's 
confidence,  and  before  you  know  it  they  all  go,  and  the  elas 
tic  cord  will  break,  or  shorten  forever." 


"  I  do  love  him,"  thought  Nepenthe,  as  she  turned  unea 
sily  on  her  pillow  that  night.  "  If  he  were  dead,  I  could 
think  of  him  calmly — but  if  he  marries  another,  how  can  I 
be  happy  ? — and  I  could  be  so  happy  with  him.  His  looks 
and  words  are  so  dear  to  me,  I  never  shall  forget  his  plea 
sant  voice  when  he  said,  before  I  sat  beside  him  in  the  car 
riage,  '  I  shall  be  happy  to  take  this  young  lady  under  my 
charge.'  And  then,  he  gave  me  those  flowers  at  the  hospi 
tal.  He  little  thought  I  was  the  pale  girl,  and  he  has  not 
forgotten  me  as  I  was  then.  Those  flowers  made  me  feel  as 


24(5  NEPENTHE. 

if  God  was  near  me  ;  though  I  was  shut  up  in  tho  hos 
pital,  without  friends,  as  if  He  would  clothe  me,  with  my 
little  weak  faith,  just  as  he  did  those  beautiful  heliotropes 
and  violets.  But  distinguished,  courted,  flattered  as  he  is, 
how  do  I  dare  to  think  of  him  ?  I  must  hide  my  weak,  fool 
ish  love.  'Tis  not  because  he  is  a  distinguished  artist  that 
I  love  him — 'tis  for  himself  alone.  If  he  were  only  poor,  I 
could  go  with  him  anywhere  in  the  wide  world,  and  cling  to 
him  through  all.  If  he  were  poor  and  unknown,  and  I  rich, 
he  should  know  and  feel,  as  I  now  feel,  that  our  two  souls 
are  kindred  souls.  I  can  enter  into  his  thoughts,  his  hopes. 
I  know  I  could  cheer  him  when  sad,  cling  to  him  through 
all  trouble  and  danger.  But  I  should  be  too  happy  if  I 
were  his.  It  would  be  too  glorious  a  dawn  after  my  long 
night.  God  help  me  to  forget,  to  banish  him  from  my  heart 
— to  still  this  love.  Yet  love  is  a  holy  and  beautiful  feeling. 
If  I  were  a  man,  and  he  a  woman,  I  would  woo  and  win  him. 
I  know  I  could — but  I  must  forget — my  heart  is  aching,  and 
my  heart  will  almost  burst. 

"  Forget,  did  I  say  ?  Do  the  stars  forget  to  shine,  the 
river  to  murmur,  the  wind  to  whisper,  the  ocean  to  heave  ? 
I  might  have  stifled  this  love  once,  but  it  is  too  late 
now.  I  have  only  to  hide  it,  to  cover  it  up  as  a  beautiful 
ruin  in  my  heart.  I  cannot  crush  love — it  will  rise  again — 
or  drown  it  with  tears,  or  put  it  to  eternal  sleep.  Love  is  a 
clairvoyant  dreamer,  a  somnambulistic  sleeper.  But  I  have 
a  shelter  to  seek  to-morrow,  and  what  have  I  to  do  with  love  ? 
Bread  must  be  earned,  and  water  must  be  sure." 

Carleyn  sat  in  his  room  that  night,  thinking.  "  Yes,  she 
must  be  engaged  to  Nicholson.  No  man  could  be  such  a 
goose  as  to  be  so  marked,  pointed  and  demonstrative,  only 
to  a  woman  he  loved,  and  who  he  knew  loved  him.  But  yet 
I  could  not  see  anything  in  her  manner  to  him  that  evinced 
the  least  of  that  ardent  affection  I  should  want  the  woman  I 
loved  to  feel  for  me.  But  the  learned  compute  that  seven 
hundred  and  seven  millions  of  millions  of  vibrations  have 
penetrated  the  eye,  before  the  eye  can  distinguish  the  tints 
of  a  violet.  What  philosophy  can  calculate  the  vibrations 
of  the  heart  before  it  can  distinguish  the  colors  of  love  ?" 


NEPENTHE.  247 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

MR.    NICHOLSON    RESOLVES    TO   BE    INTELLECTUAL. 

"  Christian  faith  is  a  grand  cathedral  with  divinely  pictured  windows. 
Standing  without,  you  see  no  glory,  nor  can  possibly  imagine  any  ; 
standing  within,  every  ray  of  light  reveals  a  harmony  of  unspeakable 
splendors." — MARBLE  FAUN. 

"  THE  girl  is  intellectual ;  yes,  intellectual,  I  believe  they 
call  it,"  said  Mr.  Nicholson  to  himself,  as  he  sat  in  his  lux 
uriously  furnished  room  thinking  about  Nepenthe  ;  "  and 
she  is  rather  serious-minded,  too,  I  should  judge.  If  I  were 
going  to  buy  or  sell  an  article,  I  should  know  just  how  to  go 
to  work,  but  this  is  a  kind  of  thing  I  have  never  done  be 
fore,  ask  a  woman  to  marry  me,  and  I  hope  I  shall  never 
have  to  do  it  again.  I  shall  lose  all  respect  for  her  if  she  is 
such  a  fool  as  to  refuse  me  ;  but  then,  young  ladies  don't  al 
ways  make  the  best  choice.  They  don't  always  know  what 
is  for  their  good.  I  am  rich  and  good-looking,  fine-looking, 
I  suppose,  at  least,  I  think  so  when  I  stand  up  by  that  slen 
der,  pale  Carleyn.  He  has  no  color  in  his  face,  and  he  is 
not  substantial-looking.  I  wonder  if  he  is  much  of  a  man. 
I  suppose  he  makes  good  pictures,  but  that,  is  very  light 
work  for  a  man,  very.  I  guess,  after  I'm  married,  I'll 
have  him  take  a  portrait  of  Nepenthe  and  me.  I'd  like  to 
encourage  him  a  little.  He  appears  to  me  a  very  well 
meaning  young  man. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  succeed  in  getting  her  in  the 
end,  but  I  want  to  make  short  and  sure  work  of  it.  I  sup 
pose,  if  you  want  to  get  a  woman  to  love  you,  you  must  try 
and  like  what  she  likes.  I  can  slick  myself  up  and  walk  in 
and  out  of  a  room  gracefully,  talk  about  the  weather,  &c., 
but  that  is  not  all.  I  must  be  intellectual ;  yes,  I  must  be 
intellectual.  I  rather  think  that  will  take.  I'll  read  the 
last  serious  and  deep  work  there  is  out,  the  one  that  is  the 
most  popular,  and  go  and  talk  about  it  with  her." 

Mr.  Nicholson  shuts  himself  up   three   hours   and   reads 


248  NEPENTHE. 

Kenan's  "  Life  of  Jesus,"  filling  his  head  as  full  as  possible 
•with  the  main  ideas  and  most  striking  things  in  the  book. 
He  goes  round  in  the  evening  to  make  Nepenthe  a  call,  and 
after  talking  about  books  generally  and  new  ones  in  particu 
lar,  he  ventures  some  deep  remarks  on  the  subject  of  mira 
cles,  and  clearing  his  throat  with  a  slight  wise  kind  of  a 
cough,  he  begins  with — 

"  Don't  you  think,  Miss  Nepenthe,  that  most  of  the  mira 
cles  in  the  Bible  were  intended  to  be — to  be — taken  in  a 
figurative  sense  ?" 

"  They've  a  way  of  figurating  everything  off  now,"  said 
Nepenthe.  "  Maybe,  it  was  only  a  figurative  Eden,  a  figura 
tive  Adam,  a  figurative  '  creation,'  a  figurative  '  begin 
ning,'  and  perhaps  a  figurative  Deity  after  all ;  and  the 
book  that  my  mother  lived  and  died  by  may  be  only  a  fig 
urative  book.  It  may  be  a  figurative  comfort,  a  figurative 
trust  after  all.  Isn't  there  anything  real  ?  I  never  can  for 
get  the  words  of  that  hymn  they  used  to  sing  in  the  dear 
old  church  at  Northampton  when  I  was  a  child — 

"  '  Firm  as  a  rock  Thy  truth  shall  stand, 
When  rolling  years  shall  cease  to  move.' 

"  Those  words  I  used  to  hear  many  a  sweet  Sabbath 
morning  from  that  clear-voiced  village  choir.  They  are  ^as 
plain  to  me  now  as  if  they  floated  on  my  ear  only  yesterday. 
Watts  may  be  the  great  millennial  prophet  poet  laureate,  at 
that  last  glad  bright  morning  when  a  kneeling  world  shall 
bow — 

"  '  Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne,' 
and — 

" '  Earth,  with  her  ten  thousand  tongues,' 

— shall  sing  to  that  dear  Old  Hundred  this  anthem  of  the 
universe." 

"  These  miracles  in  the  Bible,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  are  like 
those  '  calendars  of  home,  whose  rubrics  are  colored  by  our 
hearts.'  I  read  them  when  a  little  child  in  Paul's  Life  of 
Christ,  Paul,  who  was  so  good  an  Oriental  traveller  and 
scholar.  I  cannot  worship  Kenan's  Christ  because  he  has  given 
him,  with  all  his  sweetness  and  superior  nature,  a  Jesuit's 
cunning  and  craft  in  allowing  him  to  pretend  to  work  mira 
cles  in  spite  of  his  lofty  nature,  because,  as  he  says,  if  he 
had  died  before  he  pretended  to  work  miracles,  he  might 


NEPENTHE.  249 

have  been  dearer  indeed  to  God,  but  his  memory  would 
never  have  been  preserved  among  men. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  when  we  seek  to  '  look  alter  truth  stars,' 
we  must  '  put  out '  such  little  reason  '  candles  '  as  this." 

"  Well,"  says  Mr.  Nicholson,  quoting  his  author  exactly, 
"  '  it  is  in  the  name  of  universal  experience  that  we  banish 
miracles  from  history.'  I  suppose,  that  is,  they  are  contrary 
to  the  laws  of  nature.  Many  things  in  the  Bible  are  con 
trary  to  the  laws  of  nature." 

"  I'd  like  to  know,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  who  dares  to  say  he 
knows  or  has  read  half  the  laws  of  nature.  There's  ever  so 
many  volumes  of  them  way  up  on  the  highest  shelves  of  cre 
ation,  and  most  of  us  never  get  tall  enough  to  reach  up  to 
those  books  piled  up  on  the  top  shelves,  and  in  my  opinion, 
the  firm  old  Bible  is  the  best  ladder  we  can  climb  to  get  to 
any  of  them.  Every  time  some  new  thought  comes  up,  or  a 
new  expression  of  an  old  wonderful  truth,  somebody  screams 
out,  '  That's  not  so  ;  that's  contrary  to  the  laws  of  nature,' 
because  they  have  not  found  it  in  the  few  pages  they  have 
read  of  Creation's  great  code.  Half  of  us  have  only  learned 
the  first  large  letters  of  nature,  woven  in  with  the  big  pic 
tures  in  her  first  primer.  We  can't  begin  to  read  in  easy 
readings  yet. 

"  It  will  be  a  long  time  before  we  translate  the*  deepest, 
finest,  most  intricate,  passages  in  nature's  eloquent  plead 
ings,  supplements,  digests,  her  affirmed,  recognized  or  un 
written,  but  beautiful  and  perfect  laws — laws  she  promul 
gates  many  a  day  as  she  opens  with  a  morning-glory  for  a 
text,  and  stands  in  the  great  blue  pulpit  above,  and  closes 
with  a  holy  star  for  a  benediction. 

"  I  do  not  like  Kenan's  Christ,  because  it  is,  in  my  opin 
ion,  contrary  to  the  laws  of  human  nature  to  represent  an 
incomparable,  unsurpassable,  unrivalled,  sublime  type  and 
model  of  humanity  or  human  divinity  living  '  face  to  face 
with  God,'  perpetrating  a  grand  series  of  striking,  startling 
frauds. 

"  This  is  contrary  to  all  our  universal  experience  of  mor 
tal  goodness  and  greatness.  One  exposed  deception,  one 
suspected  fraud,  imposition,  hypocrisy  or  humbug,  dethrones 
for  us  from  its  loftiest  pedestal  on  the  shrine  of  our  reverent 
admiration,  our  most  aesthetic  and  faultless  earthly  idol.  A 
thing  we  can't  tolerate,  but  rebuke  with  scorn  in  a  servile 

11* 


250  NEPENTHE. 

inferior,  we  can't  allow  to  stain  and  soil  the  glorious  robe  of 
the  kingly,  sovereign  soul  of  the  Prince  of  Peace.  Nearer 
to  men,  dearer  to  God,  is  our  sublimest  ideal — not  farther 
from  God,  dearer  to  men. 

"  We  can't  like  this  Jesuitical  gleam,  this  sardonic  li-zht, 
playing  around  the  pure,  radiant  aureola  that  halos  the  im 
age  of  Christ  in  every  little  child's  worshipping  heart. 

"  Things  men  call  miracles,  marvels,  impossibilities,  in- 
credibles,  may  be  according  to  some  profound  laws  of  na 
ture,  which  our  poor  mental  spectacles  have  never  read, 
studied,  or  even  glanced  at.  1  often  hear  ignorant  boys  and 
stupid  men  talk  about  the  laws  of  nature,  as  if  they  had 
swallowed  whole  the  immense  immortal  digest  of  '  Creation.' 
We'd  better  try  to  search  more  and  grasp  the  heavy  books 
on  the  topmost,  celestial  shelves,  before  we  dare  to  say  to  a 
truth  or  thought  clothed  in  a  new,  strange,  startling  dress, 
'  Go  back  to  the  tomb  of  doubt.'  Let  us  wait  till  some 
learned  judge  cites,  clearly  and  correctly,  the  exact  statute, 
the  infallible  authority,  before  we  excommunicate  a  bold, 
bright  thought  that  comes  to  seek  communion  with  our  best 
thoughts  and  join  the  great  congregation  of  martyr  truths, 
whose  once  stifled  cries  have  been  long  changed  into  words 
of  sweetest  music,  thrilling  the  world's  restless  heart. 

"  If  a  man  hasn't  a  whole  thought  in  his  head,  if  he  is  stu 
pid,  dumb,  silly,  blind,  if  he  don't  know  anything,  when  a 
great  soul  towers  up  before  him  saying,  '  This  sublime 
thought,  has  flashed  upon  my  deep  studies  like  a  new  star  in 
the  sky  of  my  soul,'  this  imbecile  fool  will  cry  out,  '  Hang 
the  truth  ;  burn,  starve,  choke  or  drown  it.  That  is  contrary 
to  the  laws  of  nature."  You  may  so  cage  and  shut  out  a 
bird  from  the  light,  that  it  can't  sing,  or  so  tie  a  vine  that  it 
can't  grow  upward  or  bloom.  So  you  can  so  fence  in  a  truth 
from  the  light  and  air  that  it  can't  grow  or  thrive — but  the 
poorest  apology,  the  most  miserable  dilapidated  old  cage  in 
which  to  enclose  a  sublime  truth  is  that  old  stiff  wooden 
fence  made  of  the  laws  of  nature. 

"  I  like  to  jump  into  the  car  of  investigation  and  leave  the 
old  stage-coach  of  doubt  behind,  and  say  to  the  antiquated 
wiseacre  who  stands  on  reason's  highest,  muddiest  bank  watch 
ing  for  the  old  rumbling,  ricketty  coach  of  experience  to  come 
along,  which  has  been  driving,  with  its  one  lame  horse  of 
reason,  every  day  for  years  from  the  ark  to  the  flood  and 


NEPENTHE.  251 

back,  I'd  say,  '  We'll  give  you  a  very  grey  wig  and  gown, 
and  elect  you  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Bench  of 
the  World's  Fools.' 

You  take  out  of  the  Bible  the  living  breath  of  inspiration, 
and  it  is  like  the  Van  Jayen  in  Spitzbergen,  as  Lord  Duf- 
ferin  tells  us — "  like  a  river  larger  than  the  Thames,  plung 
ing  down  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  feet ;  every  wreath  of 
spray  and  tumbling  wave  frozen  in  a  moment  stone-stiff — 
rigid  as  iron,  awful,  everlasting  death-in-life,  staring  up  at 
the  sun  and  the  stars  in  their  courses,  and  never  meeting 
the  Norland  winds  and  the  washing  waves  with  the  thunder 
music  of  its  waters. 

"  All  the  French  cloud-wreaths  woven  around  my  moth 
er's  Bible  will  melt  away  at  last  in  truth's  clear  sunshine. 
A  soul  must  be  bathed  in  sunshine  to  write  that  which  can 
never  be  written  correctly  by  mortal  pen,  the  Life  of  Jesus. 
As  well  might  we  try  to  inlay  in  our  heart's  mosais,  sor 
row's  tears,  or  photograph  for  our  albums  the  evening  star. 

"  The  meek,  majestic  life  of  Christ  is  the  sweetest  violet 
in  the  world's  heart — its  only  real  heart's-ease,  and  Kenan's 
clear,  graceful,  graphic,  picturesque,  delicate,  brilliant,  ten 
der  hand,  with  his  rich,  life-like,  tropical  coloring  of  Orien 
tal  thought,  would  rob  the  most  glorious  of  glorious  lives, 
the  fairest  unfolding  of  the  sacred  heart,  of  the  deathless 
living  perfume  of  inspiration's  sweetest  violet. 

"  To  give  us  a  life  of  Christ  without  its  transparent,  pure, 
single,  sublime  motive,  principle  and  aim,  loftiest  and  truest 
— is  to  leave  us  beautiful  violets  in  our  garden,  but  take 
away  the  peerless  perfume  for  which  the  violet  is  so  dear. 

"  But  almost  all  the  clergymen  buy  Kenan's  book  and  read 
it  too,"  said  Mr.  Nicholson,  very  much  taken  aback  by  Ne 
penthe's  reception  of  his  first  intellectual  remarks  ;  "  and  if 
they  blame,  they  praise  it  too.  It  has,  you  must  grant,  a 
most  perfect  style." 

Just  then  there  was  a  loud  quick  ringing  at  Mrs.  Elliott's 
front  door,  and  soon  a  whole  surprise  party  of  fifty  masque- 
raders  rushed  in  and  took  possession  of  parlor,  piano,  libra 
ry,  chamber,  dining  room  and  kitchen.  It  was  domino  all 
over,  up  stairs  and  down. 

This  nocturnal  assembly  at  last  disrobed  themselves  of 
their  long  divers  colored  mantles,  oaps,  and  wide  sleeves, 
and  amused  themselves  until  midnight  with  dancing,  cha- 


252  NEPENTHE. 

rades,  and  other  diversions  ;  and  Mr.  Nicholson,  very  good 
*at  dancing  and  charading,  put  off  Kenan's  spiritual  or  intel 
lectual  domino,  which  he  had  been  wearing  all  the  evening, 
which  was  altogether  too  long,  large  and  wide  for  him — and 
never  put  it  on  again,  because  he  feared  Miss  Nepenthe 
didn't  like  it. 

As  he  stood  by  the  table  about  twelve,  eating  some  lemon 
ice,  jelly,  and  cake,  Nepenthe  thought,  "  Mr.  Nicholson  is 
himself  again." 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

DISCLOSURES. 

"  The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver, 
But  not  the  dark  arch 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  ; 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurled — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Oat  of  the  world." 

IT  was  a  dark  stormy  night,  dismally  the  wind  howled,  it 
rained  in  torrents,  when  a  loud  knock  was  heard  at  Mrs. 
Elliott's  door,  and  then  a  succession  of  quick  impulsive  raps 
as  if  some  one  were  in  eager,  desperate  haste. 

"  Sure  ma'am,  and  no  one  would  come  to-night,  and  so 
late  !"  exclaimed  Jane,  as  she  paused  a  moment  before  she 
opened  the  door. 

"  Is  Miss  Stuart  within  ?"  said  a  bare-footed  beggarly- 
looking  boy.  "  I  want  her  to  come  to  street  right 

away." 

"  It  is  impossible  for  her  to  go  out  this  stormy  evening," 
said  Mrs.  Elliott.  "  If  the  case  is  urgent,  she  can  come 
early  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  but  that  will  be  too  late,"  said  the  boy — 
"  let  her  come  now,  and  here  is  a  watch  I  will  leave  till  I 
return,"  and  he  held  out  a  valuable  gold  timepiece  ;  "  take 
this,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "  till  I  come  back  with  the  lady,  but 
let  her  come  now." 

Almost  afraid  to  follow  Her  ragged  conductor^ -yet  im- 


NEPENTHE.  253 

pelled  by  some  strange  strong  inclination,  Nepenthe  went  on 
through  the  gloomy  streets,  and  as  she  hurried  along  and- 
passed  under  the  street  lamps,  she  saw  moving  swiftly  by 
her,  with  downcast  head  and  veiled  face,  a  form  like  Mrs. 
Elliott's — and  the  lady,  whoever  she  was,  walked  like  Mrs. 
Elliot!;.  At  last  Nepenthe  reached  a  small  house,  and  fol 
lowed  her  silent  but  fleet-footed  guide  up  the  narrow  stair 
case  into  a  small  chamber.  Throwing  aside  her  damp  shawl 
and  dripping  umbrella,  she  was  led  by  the  boy  to  the  bed 
side  of  a  pale-faced  emaciated  woman,  with  long  black  hair, 
and  large  hollow  eyes.  The  sheet  was  suddenly  drawn  over 
the  face  of  the  woman,  and  as  suddenly  thrust  back. 

"  You  are  Nepenthe  Stuart,"  said  she,  gazing  at  her  with 
glaring  eyes,  "  I  should  know  the  likeness  anywhere — come 
here  close  to  the  bed,"  and  taking  a  little  dark-colored  vial 
from  under  her  pillow  and  swallowing  a  few  drops,  she  said, 
"  I  have  much  to  say,  and  these  are  my  last  words."  Then 
holding  up  a  small  package,  she  said,  "  Here  is  something 
that  belongs  to  you,  but  do  not  open  it  till  you  get  home. 
Here  is  one  letter  directed  to  Mrs.  Caroline  Stuart,  your 
mother  :  it  was  written  long  ago.  I  knew  it  would  be  writ 
ten.  I  watched  at  the  office.  I  took  it  out.  It  enclosed 
money.  The  money  is  still  within  it.  The  letter  asks  anx 
iously  about  your  mother.  I  answered  that  she  was  dead. 
It  also  asked  anxiously  about  a  child.  I  answered  the  child 
is  dead.  A  fortune  was  ready  for  you  then,  but  I  had  rea 
sons  of  my  own  why  no  child  of  Caroline  Stuart  should  re 
ceive  one  of  those  hated  dollars.  Had  your  mother  re 
ceived  one  of  those  letters  before  her  death,  it  might  have 
made  her  happy — it  may  be,  she  would  have  lived.  I  hated 
her.  I  hate  you  still,  with  those  clear  bright  Stuart  eyes  ;'' 
but  she  added,  "  The  soul,  if  material,  must  change  every 
twenty  years,  as  the  body  does ;  so  then  no  one  can  be  pun 
ished  for  crime  committed  twenty  years  ago,  because  he  is 
not  the  same  person — he  has  lost  his  identity.  I  have  com 
mitted  no  crime  since,  though  I  have  tried  and  failed.  Had 
I  carried  out  my  designs,  I  would  have  had  you  long  since 
beyond  the  reach  of  human  voice  or  human  knowledge.  I — 
stood  over  you  when  asleep — I — " 

The  woman  struggled  to  speak  again.  She  lay  still,  fell 
into  a  deep  slumber,  breathed  fainter  and  fainter,  gasped  a 
few  times,  and  died. 


254  NEPENTHE. 

Nepenthe  felt  relieved  when  safe  at  home  again.  She 
could  not  get  asleep  till  near  midnight — and  then,  as  the 
clock  struck  twelve,  the  old  vision  that  once  haunted  her 
midnight  dreams  walked  through  her  room  again,  and  stood 
by  her  bedside,  but  now  it  was  all  clad  in  white,  but  still  it 
had  the  same  long,  black,  wavy  hair. 

It  was  morning  at  last,  and  Nepenthe  awoke  after  one 
brief  undisturbed  morning  nap,  unrefreshed  and  sad. 

The  next  afternoon,  as  Mr.  Selwyn  was  walking  up  street, 
a  ragged  boy  came  up  to  him,  saying, 

"  Are  you  a  dominie,  sir  ?  are  you  a  dominie  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me,  my  boy  ?"  said  he  kindly. 

"  There's  a  woman  dead  round  here,  and  we  want  some 
one  to  say  prayers." 

Many  of  the  clergymen  had  left  the  city  dreading  con 
tagion  from  the  epidemic,  but  Mr.  Selwyn  had  no  such 
fear.  He  followed  the  boy  to  a  house  where  a  pale  corpse 
lay  coffined.  It  was  not  quite  the  time  of  burial. 

He  sat  down  a  moment  by  the  window,  and  moved  his 
chair  near  the  table,  when  something  lying  on  the  edge  of 
the  table  fell.  It  was  a  little  box.  It  opened  in  falling, 
and  there  fell  out  a  chain  with  a  locket  attached  to  it.  It 
had  an  old-fashioned  case.  He  took  it  up  and  looked  at  it. 
It  was  a  correct  likeness  of  himself,  a  miniature  painted  on 
ivory  years  ago. 

"  How  came  this  here  ?"  he  uttered  in  an  involuntary 
whisper. 

In  the  bottom  of  the  jewel  box  lay  a  torn  and  folded  pa 
per,  beginning,  "  In  the  name  of  God,  Amen."  It  was  a 
part  of  a  copy  of  his  own  will,  made  more  than  twelve  years 
ago.  There  was  also  another  fragment  carefully  folded  and 
lying  on  the  table  It  was  a  part  of  an  old  letter  written  in 
a  woman's  hand,  and  it  read  thus  : 

"  We  lived  together  happily  ;  there  was  never  one  cloud 
to  darken  our  path.  One  morning  I  stood  at  the  door  when 
he  left  the  house.  I  shall  never  forget  it.  I  kissed  him 
good  morning.  He  turned  back  and  said,  '  I'll  be  home  ear 
ly  to-night,  Lina.'  He  always  called  me  Lina.  I  remem 
ber  at  night  getting  his  slippers  and  dressing  gown  ready, 
and  preparing  his  favorite  supper.  He  liked  violets  always. 
I  had  a  little  bouquet  of  them  on  the  table.  The  fire  in  the 
grate  burned  brightly.  It  was  a  cool  day  in  October.  He 


NEPENTHE.  255 

came  not  at  six — at  seven.  0  God  !  he  never  came  again. 
I  saw  him  no  more.  I  heard  nothing  from  him.  He  left 
his  place  of  business  as  usual. 

"  Twelve  years  have  flown,  and  I  have  never  heard  a 
word.  Two  months  after  he  left,  Nepenthe  was  born." 

Some  of  the  events  of  our  lives  are  so  wrapped  up  in 
mystery  that  we  try  to  forget  them.  This  death  and  burial 
of  this  strange  woman  haunted  Mr.  Selwyn's  mind ;  he 
could  find  no  trace  of  her  history. 

Nepenthe  Stuart's  mind  was  also  left  agitated,  perplexed 
and  harrassed.  Why  had  this  woman  so  persecuted  her 
dead  mother  ?  Why  so  watched  and  haunted  her  life  ? 
She  had  never  made  an  enemy  by  a  harsh  word  or  rash 
deed  ;  and  yet,  parallel  with  her  existence,  had  ever  been 
the  hatred  of  this  implacable  enemy. 

All  that  could  be  found  of  the  strange  woman's  recent 
history  were  a  few  vague  rumors  that  she  had  lived  in  that 
place  only  three  months  ;  that  she  slept  with  two  bolts  at 
her  door  ;  that  she  always  had  a  box  under  her  pillow  at 
night ;  that  the  day  before  her  death  she  was  walking  about, 
apparently  as  well  as  usual ;  that  she  died  on  the  twenty- 
fifth,  and  she  had  often  said  she  would  die  on  the  twenty- 
fifth. 

The  woman  had  no  known  relatives,  so  Mr.  Selwyn's 
anxious  conjectures  could  never  be  cleared  up,  never  be 
quieted,  never  be  silenced  ;  and  yet  over  the  dead  he  read 
slowly,  solemnly,  and  humanely,  "  Earth  to  earth  ;  ashes  to 
ashes  ;  dust  to  dust."  So  had  turned  long  since  his  young 
bright  hopes  to  mocking  dust. 

The  hand  of  his  little  clock  on  the  mantel  moved  on  to 
four.  Mr.  Selwyn  took  home  his  likeness,  feeling  that  he 
had  a  right  to  it,  as  there  was  no  other  to  claim  it.  As 
he  sat  in  his  room  writing,  a  man  with  an  organ  commenced 
playing  under  his  window,  and  at  last  little  images  came 
dancing  out  as  the  man  played,  to  the  great  delight  of  the 
surrounding  children. 

As  the  organ  played  Mr.  Selwyn  wrote  on  in  his  old 
journal  :  "  So  we  turn  away  at  the  wheel  of  life,  burden 
some,  heavy  as  it  is,  almost  weighing  us  down  ;  yet  some 
sweet  music  may  grind  out  of  its  very  discord  harmonious 
trills  of  happiness,  little  chimes  of  joy-bells,  some  friendly 
polka  or  some  sympathetic  waltz.  They  awake,  thrill,  and 


256  NEPENTHE. 

depart,  without  our  bidding  and  without  our  willing.  We 
turn  this  heavy  wheel  of  life,  hoping  to  see  something  open 
and  bring  out  little  forms  of  happiness  dancing  as  if  to  meet 
us — but  there  opens  ever  only  darker  dancing  shadows  and 
deeper  revolving  mysteries,  till  through  all  the  stops  and 
pipes  and  organ  swells  of  the  cathedral  soul  ascends  its 
despairing  miserere." 

A  heavy  cloud  was  gathering  overhead,  and  wrapping,  as 
with  a  pall,  the  sky  so  bright  only  an  hour  before.  Mr. 
Selwyn  looked  out,  and  he  could  see  no  blue  sky  ;  he  sighed 
bitterly  :  "  So  is  my  life,"  thought  he.  "  The  blue  sky  of 
its  early  morning  is  all  cloud-covered.  I  have  one  little 
vain  hope  left.  Will  it  ever  dawn  ?  Will  I  ever  see  it 
realized  ?" 

He  involuntarily  took  up  a  book  of  poetry  from  the  table 
before  him,  and  read,  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  a  page  : — 

"  The  light  of  smile  shall  fill  again 

The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears, 
And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  years. 

"  There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest, 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night, 
And  grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest, 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light." 

Carleyn  came  in  to  see  Selwyn  early  the  next  morning. 
The  bed  was  undisturbed,  the  embroidered  pillow  frills 
were  as  smooth  as  when  they  came  from  the  laundry  the 
day  before,  the  tulips  were  spread  out  as  stiff  and  bright  as 
when  Margaret  first  folded  over  them  the  linen  sheet  accord 
ing  to  Mrs.  Edwards'  very  particular  directions. 

"  I'm  afraid  you've  been  watching  ghosts  again,"  said 
Carleyn,  kindly,  as  he  glanced  at  the  bed  and  then  at  his 
friend's  sleepless,  weary  eyes  ;  "  you'll  think  youself  mad, 
Selwyn." 

"  I  never  had  such  a  night  before,  Carleyn,"  said  he. 
"  There  are  moments  when  the  power  of  clear  thinking  and 
strong  imagining  comes  over  me  ;  the  weary  body  may  long 
for  rest,  but  the  worn  soul  lies  not  down  like  a  tired  child 
to  dreamless  slumber,  but  walks  forth  along  the  coast  of 
thought,  where  the  '  lidal  driftings  of  the  heart  come  and 
go,  and  with  clear  eye  looks  off  the  battlements  of  reason, 
looks  off  and  listens  to  catch  the  sounds  that  boom  across  the 
shore  eternal,  gazing  back,  defines  each  faintest  outline  of 


NEPENTHE.  257 

the  shadowy  past,  judges  mercilessly  some  almost  forgotten 
sin  or  wrong,  screams  like  a  night  bird  over  each  hill-top  of 
memory,  or  wails  like  a  ghost  around  the  ruins  of  the  heart. 
We  vainly  lock  up  oar  sins  and  our  sorrows  in  the  eternal 
safe,  for  there  comes,  at  times,  a  fear  they  cannot  be  for 
given  ;  even  though  a  divine  substitute  has  been  made,  even 
under  the  very  shadow  of  the  Redeemer's  cross,  they  will  be 
our  sins  still.  Through  them  we  have  suffered,  we  do  suf 
fer,  and  we  fear  we  will  suffer.  Some  nightly  touch  of  the 
clairvoyant  soul,  whose  spirit-rapping  must  be  heard  on  the 
walls  of  the  heart,  will  open  the  gate  of  tears,  and  the  grief- 
tide  rushes  in  and  overflows  the  last  green  leaf  of  comfort, 
while  whispered  tones  recall  the  dear  lost  face,  the  sweet, 
silent  voice.  When  the  clairvoyant  soul  thus  patrols,  rap 
ping  here  and  pausing  there,  the  strongest  hearted  and 
proudest  man  may  tremble  and  weep.  You  have  never  had 
to  dig  up  and  explore  the  tombs  of  the  past,  and  pore  over 
the  old  half  worn  inscriptions  of  lost  hopes,  lost  friends,  lost 
loves.  May  you  never  be  a  kneeler  at  the  gate  of  sorrow,  a 
bent  and  bowed  worshipper  at  the  tomb  of  regret,  a  lone  pil 
grim  in  the  desert  of  despair." 

"  I  wonder  what  made  that  man  walk  so  last  night,"  said 
Mrs.  Edwards,  as  she  sat  in  her  front  basement  cutting  out 
a  new  kind  of  tulip.  "  If  he  only  had  such  a  toothache  as  I 
had,  he  might  walk  ;  but  he  seems  well.  If  a  man  has  money 
enough,  and  health  and  clothes,  I  can't  see  what  should  keep 
him  out  of  his  bed.  I  never  knew  a  man  before  that  would 
grieve  and  keep  awake  and  think  all  night  as  a  woman  will." 

There  was  a  bundle  sent  to  Mr.  Selwyn  the  next  night. 
Mrs.  Edwards  said  that  he  was  up  later  than  she  had  known 
him  to  be  for  weeks,  and  he  was  evidently  reading  some 
writing.  She  had  just  looked  once  more  through  that  con 
venient  crack.  As  she  sat,  after  breakfast,  embroidering  a 
palm  leaf  in  her  muslin  band,  she  said  to  Miss  Kate  How 
ard,  "  that  Mr.  Selwyn  never  looked  so  bright  and  so  hand 
some.  She  did  wonder  what  had  got  into  the  man.  She 
began  to  think  that  he  was  going  to  be  married,"  but  that 
evening  he  astonished  her  with  the  intelligence  that  he  was 
going,  next  week — not  to  be  married — but  going  to  Eng 
land. 


258  NEPENTHE. 


CHAPTEE    XXXII. 

DARKNESS   WITHOUT  J     LIGHT    WITHIN. 

"  Send  kindly  light  amid  th'  encircling  gloom, 

And  lead  me  on  : 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home ; 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ; 

Keep  Thou  my  feet,  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene  ;  one  step's  enough  fo    me." 

MR.  SELWYN  is  in  England,  and  he  hears,  as  he  sits  qui 
etly  in  his  room  one  pleasant  morning,  a  manly  voice  sing 
ing— 

"  I  travel  all  the  irksome  night, 

By  ways  to  me  unknown  ; 
I  travel  like  a  bird  in  flight. 
Onward  and  all  alone." 

He  listens  ;  he  hears  nothing  more,  but  soon  the  adjoining 
door  opens,  and  a  gentleman  walks  out.  He  is  not  alone — one 
other  pair  of  feet  keep  pace  with  his  as  he  goes  through  the 
hall  and  descends  the  stairs.  Mr.  Selwyn  hears  some  one 
say,  "  This  way,  doctor  ;  there  are  trunks  piled  up  close  by 
the  stairs  at  your  right  hand."  Mr.  Selwyn  looks  out  as  the 
street  door  closes  and  sees  two  gentlemen  walking  slowly  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  One  has  a  green  shade  over 
his  eyes,  and  carries  a  cane  in  his  right  hand,  and  he  has  the 
arm  of  the  other  gentleman. 

It  is  a  beautiful  morning,  the  windows  are  open,  and  the 
air  is  still.  Mr.  Selwyn  hears  one  of  the  gentlemen  say,  as 
they  come  to  the  crossing,  "  Here's  a  curb-stone,  doctor  ; 
we'll  walk  slowly  along  here,  for  the  men  have  been  fixing 
the  roa'd,  and  the  stones  are  a  little  out  of  place." 

"  The  rough  path  in  life  seems  the  safest  for  me,"  an 
swered  the  other ;  "  'tis  on  the  smooth  roads  we  are  apt  to 
slip." 

"  He  is  a  doctor,  and  is  blind,"  thought  Mr.  Selwyn,  as 
they  passed  out  of  sight.  "  How  hard  to  be  blind  such  a 
beautiful  morning." 


NEPENTHE.  259 

Just  then  there  is  a  knock  at  his  door.  Tis  a  woman  with 
a  basket  of  clean  linen. 

"  Is  Dr.  AVendon  in  ?"  she  says,  setting  down  her  basket. 

"  This  is  not  his  room,"  said  Mr.  Selwyn. 

"  Oh  !"  said  the  woman,  "  I  have  made  a  mistake  ;  but  he 
had  this  room  last  month  when  I  came.  It  may  be  that  he 
has  taken  the  next  room.  They  told  me  I  should  find  him 
on  this  side  of  the  hall." 

"  I  saw  the  gentleman  in  the  next  room  go  out  a  few  mo 
ments  since,"  said  Mr.  Selwyn. 

"  I  ought  to  have  come  earlier.  Mr.  Leaden  comes  to 
take  him  out  mornings  about  this  time,"  said  the  woman,  as 
she  took  up  her  basket  and  went  down  stairs. 

"  I  don't  believe  that  man  was  always  blind,"  thought  Mr. 
Selwyn.  "  He  does  not  walk  as  if  accustomed  to  walking  in 
the  dark.  I  am  thankful,  tbat  in  all  my  affliction,  I  can 
have,  in  loneliest  hours,  the  companionship  of  books  and  na 
ture." 

In  about  an  hour  the  gentlemen  came  back. 

Dr.  Wendon  opens  his  door,  while  the  other  pair  of  feet 
descend  the  stairs  again.  Mr.  Selwyn  can  hear  him  moving 
slowly  around  the  room,  as  he  puts  his  cane  in  the  corner, 
opens  and  shuts  his  wardrobe  door,  and  at  last  moves  his 
chair  slowly  up  to  the  window  and  draws  a  heavy  sigh.  By- 
and-by  somebody  opens  his  door  without  knocking  and  says, 
"  I  have  come  to  read  to  you  this  morning,  doctor.  What 
will  you  have  ?  the  morning  paper  or  the  last  of  Jane 
Eyre  ?" 

"  I  dreamed  last  night,"  said  the  doctor,  "  that  I  was  at 
home  with  my  mother,  in  the  old  farm-house.  I  thought  I 
was  a  child  sitting  at  her  feet.  She  was  reading  to  me  out 
of  the  Bible.  She  put  her  hands  on  my  head  just  as  she 
used  to  do,  and  looking  into  my  eyes;  said,  earnestly, 
'  There's  only  one  book,  Walter — there's  only  one  book,' — 
and  then  she  said,  '  Thy  word  shall  be  a  lamp  unto  my  feet 
and  a  light  unto  my  path,' — and  she  made  me  repeat  it  till  I 
could  say  it  correctly,  and  she  said,  '  Don't  be  so  troubled, 
Walter,'  as  she  opened  the  Bible  again  and  read,  '  Thou  wilt 
keep  him  in  perfect  peace  whose  soul  is  stayed  en  Thee,' — 
and  she  taught  me  that,  too.  Then  she  read  something  more 
about  the  Lord's  being  an  everlasting  light.  I  wish  I  could 


260  NEPENTHE. 

remember  it.  I  regret  I  did  not  read  more  of  the  Bible 
when  I  could. 

"  I  had  an  elegant  copy  of  the  Scriptures  lying  on  an  em 
broidered  crimson,  velvet  mat,  on  a  little  table  in  the  corner 
of  my  parlor  ;  but  after  I  had  written  in  it  the  date  of  our 
marriage,  and  the  advent  of  our  little  Violet,  I  seldom  con 
sulted  its  sacred  oracles." 

Mr.  Leaden  repeated  slowly,  "  The  sun  shall  be  no  more 
thy  light  by  day,  neither  shall  the  moon  give  light  unto 
thee  ;  but  the  Lord  shall  be  unto  thee  an  everlasting  light, 
and  thy  God  thy  glory."  "  Thy  sun  shall  no  more  go  down, 
nor  thy  moon  withdraw  itself,  for  the  Lord  shall  be  thy 
everlasting  light,  and  the  days  of  thy  mourning  shall  be 
ended." 

"  The  Bible,  to  me,"  said  Dr.  Wendon,  "  is  like  the  well 
of  Sychar,  deep,  and  nothing  to  draw  with.  These  promises 
are  not  mine." 

"  You  have  a  claim  to  them  all,"  said  Mr.  Leaden,  kindly. 
No  eclipse  need  hide  your  soul  from  this  spiritual  sunshine. 
'  These  things  have  I  spoken  unto  you,  that  in  me  ye  might 
have  peace.'  '  Thy  word  is  very  sure,  therefore  thy  servant 
loveth  it.'  '  These  things  have  I  spoken  unto  you,  that  my 
joy  might  remain  in  you,  and  that  your  joy  might  be  full.' 
He  has  put  you  on  the  darkening  waves,  that  you  may  fol 
low  the  guiding  light  hung  out  astern.  Only  believe,  and 
you  shall  hear  a  voice  as  you  take  a  hand  stretched  out  to 
you  from  out  the  dark,  '  Peace  I  leave  with  you  ;  my  peace 
I  give  unto  yon  :  not  as  the  world  giveth,  give  I  unto 
you.'  " 

"  I  once  read  in  a  book,"  said  Dr.  Wendon,  "  that  thero 
was  no  real  trouble,  so  long  as  we  can  have  God  for  our 
friend.  I  know  no  earthly  philosophy  can  comfort  or  make 
me  happy,  afflicted  as  I  am.  If  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
peace,  I  would  like  to  have  it.  As  I  stumble  along  my 
dark  way,  I  wish  I  could  walk  and  talk  with  God,  and  I 
would  not  be  so  perfectly  desolate.  I  read  in  the  Bible, 
when  a  child,  about  Paul  and  Silas  singing  praises  in  prison, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  very  strange.  My  soul  is  in  a  dark 
prison,  and  I  cannot  sing  praises.  I  cannot  see  how  God 
communes  with  man.  It  all  seems  dark  and  mysterious  to 
me.  Right  before  me  I  can  feel 


NEPENTHE.  261 

'  The  great  world's  altar  stairs, 
That  slope  through  darkness  up  to  God.' 

I  cannot  go  forward  without  some  hand  to  lead  me." 

Mr.  Leaden  was  called  away,  and  the  doctor  sat  alone  by 
the  window  till  almost  sundown  ;  and  at  last  his  pent  up 
heart  burst  forth  in  the  words  of  that  beautiful  hymn  : 

"  '  Though  like  a  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down, 
Darkness  be  over  me, 

My  rest  a  stone  ; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thexe, 

Nearer  to  Thee.' 

He  struggled  long  with  doubts  of  his  own  fitness  and  of 
God's  willingness,  as  he  walked  back  and  forth  during  the 
long  evening,  and  at  last  he  knelt  down  and  prayed  like  a 
tired  child  at  a  kind  Father's  feet,  and  this  was  his  prayer  : 

"  '  Just  as  I  am — though  tossed  about 
With  many  a  conflict,  many  a  doubt, 
Fighting  within,  and  fears  without, 
0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come,  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am — poor,  wretched,  blind, 
Light,  riches,  healing  of  the  mind, 
Yea,  all  I  need  in  Thee  to  find, 
0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come,  I  come ! 

Just  as  I  am — Thou  wilt  receive, 
Wilt  welcome,  pardon,  cleanse,  relieve, 
Because  Thy  promise  I  believe, 
0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come,  I  come ! 

Just  as  I  am — Thy  love  unknown 
Has  broken  every  barrier  down  ; 
Now  to  be  Thine,  yea,  Thine  alone, 
0  Lamb  of  God,- 1  come,  I  come !' 

Morning  came  at  last,  and  as  the  sunshine  fell  on  those 
sightless  eyes,  these  words  floated  into  the  illumined  case 
ment  of  his  soul,  like  a  chime  of  heavenly  music  : 

"  Immortal  light,  and  joys  unknown. 
Are  for  the  saints  in  darkness  sown . '' 

As  he  rises,  and  goes  about  his  room,  alone,  as  before,  he 
sings  with  radiant  face  : 

"  Thy  will  be  done !     I  will  not  fear 
The  fate  provided  by  Thy  love  ; 
Though  clouds  and  darkness  shroud  me  here, 
I  know  that  all  is  bright  above." 


262  NEPENTHE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

PRUDENCE  POTTER'S  NEW  DISCOVERIES. 

"  0  DEAR  !  I  am  clear  beat  out.  I  wonder  if  there  are 
any  more  stairs  ?"  exclaimed  a  sharp,  impatient  voice,  as  a 
straw  bonnet  with  green  ribbons,  a  brown  shawl,  a  gray  bag, 
and  spectacles,  were  seen  slowly  ascending  the  fifth  flight  of 
Mrs.  Edwards'  stairs.  "  Well,  well !  what  can't  be  cured 
must  be  endured  ;  but  I  guess  my  rheumatism  won't  be  any 
better  after  this.  I  never  thought  I'd  get  xip  so  high,  but 
I'd  climb  twenty  pairs  of  stairs  before  I'd  pay  six  dollars  a 
week  for  my  board — but  that  mortgage  money  will  all  be 
lost  if  I  don't  stay  and  see  about  it. 

"  Here,"  said  she,  suddenly  turning  round  and  addressing 
the  Bridget  behind  her,  who  had  been  showing  her  the  way 
up  stairs,  "  Here,"  said  she,  "  just  read  what's  on  that  card. 
I  must  have  put  my  best  spectacles  in  my  other  pocket.  I 
was  so  flustered  when  I  came  off." 

Bridget  takes  the  card,  and  reads — 
"  TRAP,  FOGG  &  CRAFT, 

Attorneys  and  Counsellors  at  Law." 

"  Trap,  Fogg  and  Craft,  is  it  ?  Well  Mr.  Fogg  gave  me 
the  card,  and  he  says  it  is  a  stiddy,  respectable  firm.  Well, 
I  must  stay  here  until  this  business  is  done.  If  Priscilla's 
husband  hadn't  died  until  Spring,  I  might  have  stayed 
there,  and  saved  paying  all  this  board.  It  is  a  good  plan  to 
visit  when  you  can,  and  save  pa}  ing  your  hotel  bill." 

"  Here  is  your  room,  ma'am,"  said  Bridget,  throwing  wide 
open  a  door  at  one  end  of  the  hall ;  and  turning  round,  she 
went  down  stairs  quickly,  as  if  glad  to  got  back  to  her  bed- 
making  on  the  second  floor,  where  she  could  smell  of  the 
nice  young  gentleman's  Lubin  and  soap,  and  try  a  little  of 
his  fragrant  pomade,  and  see  how  his  new  pearl-backed  stiff 
brush  would  feel  on  her  auburn  curls  ;  and  examine  the 
pictures  in  his  last  magazine,  and  chat  a  little  at  the  window 


NEPENTHE.  263 

with  yellow-haired  blue-eyed  Mike,  who  is  trimming  the 
grape  vines  in  the  garden  opposit^  and  who  has  promised 
to  marry  her,  if  Margaret  won't  have  him. 

Miss  Prudence  stands  up  erect,  and  looks  around,  and 
then,  as  she  folds  up  her  shawl  in  the  old  folds,  she  says  to 
herself,  with  the  old  smile  on  her  face,  "  Never  less  alone 
than  when  alone." 

When  the  bonnet  and  green  ribbons  are  stowed  away  in 
the  bandbox,  and  covered  carefully  with  the  clean  pocket 
handkerchief,  to  keep  out  the  city  dust,  and  the  shawl 
wrapped  in  a  newspaper,  and  laid  on  a  shelf  in  the  closet, 
and  she  has  put  on  her  high-crowned  cap,  with  a  frill  all 
around  it,  and  her  other  spectacles,  she  stands  in  her  door 
and  looks  cautiously  round.  "  1  wonder  if  there  is  any  men 
folks  up  here  ?''  thought  she,  as  she  began  walking  around 
on  tiptoe,  and  looking  into  the  half-open  doors  of  the  rooms 
on  that  floor.  They  were  all  servants'  rooms,  except  the 
room  opposite  hers,  whose  door,  as  she  said,  was  "  open  on 
a  crack." 

With  one  of  her  comprehensive  glances,  she  saw  at  once 
the  slopirg  windows,  the  old  Brussels  carpet,  the  old-fash 
ioned  high  square  mahogany  washstand,  with  a  piece  of  its 
marble  top  broken  oif,  the  single  bed,  the  cracked  glass  over 
the  bureau,  the  trunk  in  the  corner,  with  the  initials, '  N.  S.' 
in  brass  tacks,  the  rows  of  nails  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  with 
their  well-m ended,  carefully  preserved  dresses.  All  the 
furniture  had  been  costly  when  purchased,  and  once  graced 
the  more  elegant  rooms  below.  There  was  a  large  oil  paint 
ing  standing  upon  the  floor,  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  on 
the  easel  near  it,  an  unfinished  copy  of  the  same  painting, 
with  an  ivory  pallet  beside  it,  with  newly  mixed  colors. 

Miss  Prudence  walks  up  and  looks  in  the  glass.  She  al 
ways  puts  on  her  cap  with  remarkable  precision,  but  her  cap 
is  one-sided,  her  curls  longer  on  one  side,  her  sleeve  drawn 
up.  She  stretches  down  the  curls,  draws  down  the  sleeve, 
pulls  the  collar  around*  and  draws  down  her  mouth  on  one 
side,  as  she  says,  "  Why,  how  did  I  get  everything  so  cata- 
cornered  ?"  But  the  more  she  adjusted  her  collar,  curls 
and  dress,  the  more  crooked  she  was  getting.  The  glass 
was  crooked.  It  had  been  purchased  long  ago,  for  its  ele 
gant  frame,  as  many  boarding-house  mirrors  are,  without 
regard  to  their  true  reflections.  In  most  of  the  glasses  in 


264  NEPENTHE. 

that  house,  your  dimensions  were  either  elaborated  or  elon 
gated,  twisted,  exaggerated,  or  distorted.  People  like  to 
look  as  well  as  they  can,  and  have  at  least  &  correct  esti 
mate  of  their  outer  selves. 

On  the  bureau  is  a  well-worn  Bible,  with  the  name  "  Ne 
penthe  Stuart,"  written  in  a  delicate  hand  on  the  blank  leaf, 
and  by  its  side  is  a  vase  filled  with  fresh  violets  ;  on  the 
table  is  a  basket  just  large  enough  for  a  neat  little  lady  to 
carry  about  with  her.  That  trunk  is  the  identical  trunk 
once  placed  by  Carleyn  in  the  bottom  of  his  carriage.  Pru 
dence  walked  about  quietly,  and  started  suddenly  as  she 
looked  at  the  bed,  for  there  lay  asleep  the  young  occupant 
of  the  servants'  room,  with  an  unfinished  drawing  of  a  violet 
in  her  hand.  The  drawing  was  correct  and  artistic.  In  the 
folio  beside  her  are  many  sketches,  and  among  them,  an  ex 
act  copy  of  a  certain  lay  figure  always  to  be  seen  in  a  cer 
tain  room  at  the  School  of  Design,  with  which  the  young 
ladies  have  so  much  amusement. 

Miss  Prudence  walks  softly  out  as  she  sees  the  sleeping 
young  lady,  saying  to  herself,  "  Wfell,  well !  Here's  some 
body  fiddling  away  her  time  ;"  and  then  she  steals  back  into 
her  room  and  shuts  the  door,  taking  out  her  unfinished  pair 
of  mixed  stockings  and  knitting  away.  You  could  buy  stock 
ings  all  made  at  the  stores  for  half  the  cost  of  that  yarn,  and 
yet  she  laments  over  the  idleness  and  folly  of  the  picture- 
making  young  lady  in  that  room  ;  while  Nepenthe,  who  is 
really  not  very  fond  of  copying,  is  to  be  paid  twenty-five 
dollars  each  for  two  copies  of  the  picture  on  the  easel.  But 
Prudence  wishes  she  could  manage  for  her,  as  she  sighs  and 
says,  "  What  can't  be  cured  must  be  endured." 

"  Well,  well,"  says  my  aunt  Lydia,  to  whom  I  have  been 
reading  my  story  thus  far,  "  don't  go  on  saying  anything 
more,  Minnie,  about  attic  rooms — we  all  know  how  cheerless 
are  those  rooms  in  the  top  of  city  boarding-houses,  with  only 
apologies  for  windows  ;  and  you  needn't  tell  about  her  pale 
face  and  large  eyes.  All  the  heroines  in  novels  have  pale 
faces  and  large  eyes,  growing  up  and  thinking  themselves 
so  plain-looking,  yet  they  turn  out  exceedingly  handsome 
after  all.  And  don't  put  in  any  more  moralizing  or  fine 
sentences.  People  can  always  read  enough  of  them  in 
books  that  are  written  on  purpose.  I  always  skip  them  in  a 


NEPENTHE.  265 

story.  It  is  the  plot  we  want,  not  beautiful  writing,  or  long 
conversations,  or  elaborate  disquisitions.  But  tell  me  how 
Nepenthe  Stuart,  as  poor  as  you  make  her  out  to  be,  ever 
got  away  from  the  Elliott's,  and  into  the  School  of  Design  ; 
for  you  can't  get  any  kind  of  a  room  in  the  city,  unless  you 
pay  twelve  shillings  a  week  for  it." 

"  Well,  aunt  Lydia,  be  patient,  and  I  will  tell  you  how 
the  morning  after  Nepenthe  sang  and  played  for  Carleyn,  a 
letter  came  from  the  lawyer  Douglass  to  her,  informing  her 
of  a  bequest  of  two  hundred  dollars  from  Miss  Susan  Simp 
son,  deceased. 

"  With  this  money  she  resolved  to  seek  the  cheapest  re 
spectable  quarters  for  lodging,  and  furnishing  her  own  food, 
attend  the  School  of  Design,  and  learn  some  of  the  many 
arts  taught  in  that  noble  institution;  that  when  her  little 
pile  of  dollars  was  gone,  she  could  sustain  herself,  either  at 
the  School  of  Design,  or  by  giving  instruction  in  some  pri 
vate  family. 

"  There  is  a  benevolent  lady  who  has  given  so  much  time 
and  money  to  the  institution,  that  her  name  will  always  be 
associated  with  it  ;  and  she  has  a  specimen  book,  in  which 
each  pupil,  after  being  a  certain  time  at  the  institution,  puts 
a  specimen  of  that  which  she  can  do  best.  After  Nepenthe 
had  been  there  a  few  months,  her  specimen  was  really  con 
sidered  the  most  beautiful  and  perfect  by  all  the  apprecia 
tive  eyes  which  looked  over  the  pages  of  the  specimen  book." 

Nepenthe's  hired  room  was  in  the  top  of  Mrs.  Edwards' 
house.  She  went  there  the  morning  after  Mr.  Selwyn  sailed 
for  England.  She  lived  on  smoked  beef,  boiled  rice,  brown 
bread,  crackers,  boiled  eggs,  and  all  those  nameless  relish- 
less  articles  upon  which  ladies  with  slender  purses,  without 
cooks  and  kitchens,  usually  subsist. 

Neither  the  Elliott's  nor  Carleyn  knew  where  she  had 
vanished.  Florence  felt  much  relieved.  She  was  once 
more  the  sole  attraction  and  queen  supreme  of  her  elegant 
home.  Had  she  heard  of  the  sudden  or  tragical  death  of 
this  innocent  and  friendless  Nepenthe,  not  one  real  pang  of 
regret  would  have  disturbed  her  selfish  heart. 

It  was  not  until  Nepenthe  Stuart's  vacation  in  the  sum 
mer  that.  Frank  Carleyn  happened  to  see  the  specimen  book, 
and  then  found  out  how  and  where  she  had  spent  her  time 
the  last  few  months.  Under  the  beautiful  painting  of  a 

12 


26f>  NEPENTHE. 

group  of  violets  he  read,  in  clear,  distinct  letters,  Nepenthe 
Stuart.  And  one  of  the  young  ladies,  having  begged  a  copy 
of  some  verses  of  Nepenrhe's  about  her  first  gift  of  flowers 
in  the  hospital,  had  shown  it  to  several  of  her  intimate 
friends.  The  verses  were  so  beautiful  that  one  of  the  numer 
ous  friends  who  boarded  with  Carleyn  showed  it  to  him,  and 
he  managed  to  copy  them  for  himself;  he'  was  delighted  to 
find  the  name  of  that  little  pale  girl  at  the  hospital.  The 
original  copy  of  the  verse  was  in  the  same  handwriting  of 
those  beautiful  lines  he  had  found  folded  in  the  Hyperion 
belonging  to  Florence  Elliott,  to  whose  fair  hand  he  had 
attributed  the  writing  of  the  poetry.  He  understood  it  now 
— Nepenthe  had  written  both.  They  were  the  same  metre, 
the  same  style  ;  but  yet,  there  might  be  some  mistake  : 
Nepenthe  and  Florence  might  write  a  similar  hand,  or  Ne 
penthe  have  copied  them  for  Florence.  Florence  was  too 
noble  to  stoop  to  such  an  imposition  ;  he  had  condemned 
her  rashly  and  wrongly.  There  are  minds  in  themselves  so 
noble  and  honorable  it  is  hard  to  get  them  to  believe  that  an 
apparently  high-minded  woman  would  stoop  to  an  ignoble 
or  mean  action.  He  asked  the  young  lady  who  first  showed 
his  friend  those  verses  of  Nepenthe  Stuart's  if  she  had  any 
more  of  Miss  Stuart's  poetry. 

"  I  have  but  one  other  piece,"  and  she  showed  him  an 
exact  duplicate  of  the  copy  of  verses  he  had  found  in  the 
volume  of  Longfellow's  Hyperion  which  lie  borrowed  from 
Florence  Elliott. 

He  sighed  as  he  said  to  himself,  "  Mr.  Nicholson  will 
have  a  very  sweet  wife  ;  she  sings  and  plays  with  great  ex 
pression,  and  she  writes  very  beautiful  poetry  ;  and  now  I 
wonder  who  that  tall,  elegantly  dressed,  hollow  eyed  woman 
was  .1  met  at  that  reception.  She  seemed  to  know  all  about 
Nepenthe  Stuart,  for  she  spoke  so  positively  of  her  being 
soon  the  wife  of  Mr.  Nicholson.  That  woman  must  have 
been  handsome  once  ;  her  eyes  are  radiantly  bright,  yet 
fearfully  hollow.  Yet  it  is  a  queer  place  for  Mr.  Nichol 
son's  expectant  bride,  in  the  School  of  Design.  One  would 
think  his  wife  need  to  perfect  herself  no  more  in  any  branch 
of  science  or  art.  She  knows  a  great  deal  too  much  for  him 
already." 

After  this,  Carleyn  and  Florence  were  often  seen  together. 
He  was  becoming  one  of  the  first  artists  in  the  city.  He 


NEPENTHE.  267 

was  young,  good,  gifted,  handsome,  graceful  and  accom 
plished.  Everybody  thought  he  was  engaged  to  Florence 
Elliott,  and  many  said  what  a  beautiful  wife  for  an  artist. 
He  could  model  his  ideals  from  her. 

Mrs.  Elliott,  though  a  very  fine  looking  woman,  began  to 
look  worn  and  worried  ;  something  troubled  her.  She  had 
frequent  and  long  consultations  with  Mr.  Trap,  from  which 
she  came  out  with  a  heavier  cloud  on  her  brow  than  ever. 
She  would  sit  by  herself,  silently  thinking,  for  days,  as  if  in 
a  deep,  troubled  reverie.  Ever  since  Nepenthe's  mysteri 
ous  disappearance,  she  had  been  anxious  and  uneasy  ;  while 
Florence,  who  neither  knew  nor  shared  her  mother's  troubles, 
was  delighted  that  the  girl  was  out  of  her  sight.  Mrs. 
Elliott  would  have  given  much  to  have  found  out  where 
Nepenthe  had  gone. 


CHAPTER    XXXI V. 

THE    NEW    PRIVATE   IN   COMPANY    G. 

"  For  when  we  may  not  dp,  then  will  we  speken, 
And  in  our  ashen  colde  is  fire  yreken." — CHAUCER. 

WHEN  I  see  a  head  of  beautiful  curls,  I  am  apt  to  think 
they  adorn  some  plain  face,  for  I  have  seen  so  many  ordin 
ary  looking  girls  whose  hair  curls  splendidly,  as  the  school 
girls  say,  but  there  never  was  any  curl  in  Charit}'  Gouge's 
hair  ;  nobody  ever  suspected  such  a  thing,  nor  do  I  suppose 
that  was  the  reason  of  her  plainness.  But  she  never  tried 
to  cuil  it ;  she  said  "  Let  well  enough  alone,"  when  Mr. 
Vole  mischievously  asked  her  one  day  "  Why  she  never 
curled  her  hair."  He  always  liked  to  see  brown  hair  curled 
— wavy  and  brown  ought  always  to  go  together. 

But  "  something  must  be  going  to  happen/'  Mr.  Vole 
said,  "  for  Miss  Charity  was  really  trying  to  educate  some 
curls."  True  enough  ;  she  had  her  hair  done  up  in  papers 
for  three  days,  and  that  was  the  reason  her  meals  were  sent 
up  to  her  room.  Mr.  Vole  f>und  it  out  some  way. 

"  I  wonder  when  we  are  to  see  those  curls,"  said  he  to 
himself  one  evening.  "  Miss  Charity  must  be  going  to 
'have  a  companion.'"  That  was  the  phrase  she  always 
used  when  she  spoke  of  any  of  her  friends  marrying. 


268  NEPENTHE. 

Wednesday  morning  the  curls  were  all  right — thirty-two 
of  them,  long,  smooth  and  glossy.  She  had  brushed  and 
combed,  pomaded  and  fussed,  twirled  over  her  fingers,  then 
rolled  them  over  a  stick ;  they  were  real  bona  fide  curls,  and 
so  she  came  down  to  the  breakfast  table.  I  thought  Mr. 
Vole  would  nearly  crush  one  of  Kate  Howard's  little  fairy 
feet — he  kept  stepping  on  her  toes  and  looking  so  express 
ively.  "  Good  morning,  Miss  Gouge  ;  and  how  do  you  this 
morning  ?"  said  he.  "  Have  you  been  ill  ?  You  look  VERY 
well  this  morning." 

Kate  Howard  was  almost  convulsed  with  laughter.  She 
stuffed  her  kandkerchief  in  her  mouth,  and  kept  wiping  her 
face  with  her  napkin,  and  fidgetted  in  her  chair,  and  tried 
to  become  absorbed  in  a  dignified  conversation  with  old 
Mrs.  Vole,  who  sat  the  other  side  of  her.  Mr.  V\>le  stepped 
on  her  toes  again  just  as  she  was  getting  respectably  straight, 
and  whispered  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  guess  Miss  Charity  is  go 
ing  to  have  her  vignette  taken." 

Miss  Charity  went  out  quite  soon  after  breakfast.  Mr. 
Vole  stood  by  the  window  with  Kate  Howard,  who  was 
scolding  him  for  making  her  laugh  so.  She  should  have  to 
change  her  seat  at  table.  As  Charity  went  out  Mr.  Vole 
said,  "  Miss  Gouge  always  walks  as  if  she  was  afraid  she 
would  be  too  late  for  the  cars — or  as  if  she  had  some  im 
portant  business  to  transact  immediately.  Did  you  see  that 
new  green  velvet  waist  ?  and  all  that  display  of  jewelry  ? 
Won't  she  make  a  picture  ?  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  nose  ? 
Thin  at  the  top,  as  if  there  wasn't  flesh  enough  to  cover  the 
bones,  and  the  end  is  large  and  rather  fleshy  ;  the  olfactory 
commencement  is  dearth,  and  the  end  superfluity." 

"  She  has  such  cold,  clear,  staring  grey  eyes,"  said  Kate, 
"  I  feel,  when  she  looks  at  me,  as  if  I  were  being  dissected, 
body  and  soul,  as  if  I  ought  to  be  wicked,  if  I  ain't." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Vole,  "  she  has  scalpel  eyes,  as  if  she 
could  take  you  all  apart  and  put  you  together  again  a  great 
deal  better  than  you  were  before.  The  mouth  is  cold,  criti 
cal,  gossippy  ;  it  always  looks  as  if  it  wanted  to  say  '  what's 
the  news  ?'  and  the  chin  is  sharp  enough  to  cut  window 
glass  with." 

Mr.  Vole  was  more  than  half  right.  Charity  had  gone  to 
sit  for  her  picture.  She  had  made  an  appointment  with  the 
artist  Carleyn.  She  wanted  to  be  taken  in  a  cloud,  and  yet 


NEPENTHE.  269 

she  wanted  the  green  waist  to  show.  Perhaps  Carleyn 
could  compromise  the  matter,  and  show  a  little  of  the  clouds 
and  some  of  the  green,  too.  Mr.  Vole  thought  it  too  bad  to 
Gouge  out  a  cloud  so. 

Quite  tired  and  out  of  breath,  Miss  Charity  climbed  the 
stairs  and  reached  Carleyn's  door.  She  paused  a  moment 
to  adjust  her  curls,  smooth  down  the  folds  of  her  green 
dress,  and  arrange  the  corners  of  her  mouth  and  droop  her 
eyelids  a  little  ;  then  she  knocked  gently,  but  the  response 
was  only  an  ominous  silence.  Carleyn  had  actually  gone  ; 
the  studio  was  closed. 

If  anybody  said,  did,  or  looked  anything  that  Miss  Char 
ity  didn't  like,  or  with  which  she  didn't  agree,  she  called  it 
insulting  her.  It  was  a  queer  construction  of  the  word. 
"  How  did  Mr.  Carleyn  dare  to  insult  me  so  ?"  said  she,  an 
grily,  "  as  to  go  off  without  fulfilling  his  appointment." 

If  you  would  think  Miss  Charity's  eyes  sharp  and  critical 
when  in  a  serene  state,  what  would  you  think  to  see  her  an 
gry  ?  They  had  a  stab  you,  shoot  you,  knock  you  down 
look,  and  her  voice  was  a  combination  of  sharp  steel  and 
loud  thunder.  It  was  enough  to  make  a  quiet  gentleman 
tremble  and  a  timid  woman  shiver  ;  but  she  often  said,  "  I 
don't  want  to  be  amiable.  I  don't  like  amiable  people. 
Carleyn  is  treacherous  and  perfidious.  With  all  his  cat-like 
softness  of  manner,  he  is  really  a  hypocrite,"  said  she,  in 
dignantly. 

How  she  wished  there  was  somebody  there  she  could 
scold  !  She  had  flattered  herself  that  her  portrait  would  be 
hung  in  a  conspicuous  place  at  the  next  exhibition  of  the 
Academy  of  Design — perhaps  in  the  very  spot  where  this 
year  had  hung  that  wonderful  Nepenthe,  which  had  so  be 
witched  everybody,  and  about  which  the  critics  never  would 
get  tired  of  talking.  Then  those  curls — that  three  days' 
tribulation — were  all  for  nothing  ! 

Carleyn  had  gone,  and  so  suddenly,  that  few  knew  where 
Some  great  emergency  must  have  called  him  peremptorily 
from  his  beloved  easel. 

The  next  week,  as  Prudence  Potter  stood  in  the  post- 
office,  waiting  for  a  stamp  to  put  on  her  letter,  a  gentleman 
by  her  side  dropped  a  letter  he  was  just  about  to  hand  to 
the  clerk  to  mail  that  morning.  Prudence  picked  it  up,  and 


270  NEPENTHE. 

somehow  managed  to  read  the  superscription — she  had  on 
her  new  spectacles — it  read  thus  : 

FRANK  CARLEYN, 

Company  Gr, Regiment, 

New  York  S.  M. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

AMONG    THE    MISSING. 

"  Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die, 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  Six  Hundred." 

IT  was  just  six  months  on  the  15th,  since  Charity  Gouge 
found  Carleyn's  studio  closed. 

On  that  evening,  had  you  passed  hy  Mrs.  Edwards' 
boarding  house  about  eight  o'clock,  you  might  have  seen  her 
standing  at  the  door. 

"  I  am  so  tired,"  said  she,  as  she  rang  the  bell,  "  I 
couldn't  walk  another  step,  but  this  has  been  one  of  the 
happiest  days  of  my  life.  I  havn't  thought  one  moment 
since  morning  of  Mr.  Edwards  or  boarders  either,"  as  she 
eat  down  completely  exhausted  on  her  doorstep  waiting  for 
Bridget,  who  was  unusually  tardy  in  coming  to  the  door. 

"  Bridget  and  Margaret  are  both  out,"  said  Miss  Kate 
Howard,  as  she  opened  the  door.  "  Why,  Mrs.  Edwards, 
how  tired  you  look  !  Come  in  and  lie  down  on  the  sofa,  and 
let  me  take  your  bonnet  and  shawl  up  stairs." 

"  I  am  tired/'  said  Mrs.  Edwards.  "  I  never  ate  a  mouth 
ful  of  breakfast,  I  went  off  in  such  a  hurry.  I  lay  awake  all 
last  night  thinking  of  those  poor  sick  soldiers.  There  they 
were,  more  than  two  days  on  the  bare  floor  without  any  beds 
or  covering,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  hours  they  went 
without  food.  But  what  could  I  do,  with  my  hands  full,  and 
my  boarders,  and  so  many  things  to  pay  all  the  time,  butter 
thirty  cents  a  pound,  and  sugar  so  high,  and  nobody  to  take 
care  of  me  if  I  get  sick  and  helpless  ?  Prudence  Potter 


NEPENTHE.  271 

says  I  had  better  let  the  soldiers  alone,  and  let  the  rich 
people  take  care  of  them.  But  I  don't  believe  the  world's 
going  to  be  all  taken  care  of  by  rich  people,  but  I  didn't 
know  as  I  ought  to  go  ;  but  just  as  plain  as  I  can  hear  my 
clock  strike,  did  those  words  come  to  me  in  the  night  over 
and  over — that  text  of  that  self-denial  sermon  I  heard  once, 
'  Withhold  not  good  from  any  one  to  whom  it  is  due,  when 
it  is  in  the  power  of  thine  hand  to  do  it,'  and  this  morning  I 
knew  that  I  ought  to  go. 

"  As  I  said,  I  didn't  eat  a  mouthful  of  breakfast,  You 
know  I  meant  to  take  a  great  pail  of  boiled  custard  to  those 
poor  fellows.  T  wouldn't  make  it  of  grocery  milk,  and  I 
thought  our  milkman  never  would  come,  I  never  knew  him 
so  late.  I  was  in  a  great  hurry  to  cool  the  custard,  so  I  put 
the  warm  pail  right  on  the  ice.  I  never  was  such  a  goose 
before,  and  of  course  the  pail  soon  slipped  off,  and  I  lost  al 
most  all  my  custard  in  the  bottom  of  the  refrigerator.  I  de 
clare  I  could  have  had  a  good  cry  about  it ;  so  I  took  the 
little  milk  I  had  left  and  made  more  custard,  and  only  had 
three  pint?  when  I  might  have  had  at  least  three  quarts.  I 
took  some  sandwiches  made  of  those  raised  biscuits  and  that 
nice  roast  beef. 

"  I  was  glad  I  took  that  bag  of  lint,  they  needed  it  so 
much. 

"  All  the  time  I  get  I  mean  to  scrape  lint,  or  knit  stock 
ings,  but  not  of  that  horrid  coarse  yarn.  I  should  think  it 
would  take  the  skin  off  their  feet,  if  they  are  like  the  feet 
of  other  men.  I  am  not  going  to  make  any  more  tulip  quilts 
or  embroider  any  more  bands.  While  these  poor  fellows 
suffer  so,  it  isn't  right  to  spend  any  time  or  money  either  on 
tilings  we  can  do  without. 

"  I  went  through  all  the  wards  and  talked  with  nearly 
every  man.  There  were  old  and  young — some  educated 
and  some  ignorant ;  some  as  fine  looking  and  gentlemanly- 
looking  men  as  you'd  meet  anywhere. 

"  I  feel  so  sorry  for  some  of  them  I  don't  think  I  can 
sleep  to-night.  If  I  could  only  have  given  one  of  my  bis 
cuits  to  every  man  there.  As  I  had  had  no  breakfast,  I 
saved  out  one  biscuit  to  eat  myself  about  noon — but  one 
poor  half-starved  looking  ma  i,  with  wistful  eyes  and  emaci 
ated  hands,  asked  me  if  I  couldn't  give  him  a  biscuit — so  I 
gave  it,  and  I  havn't  eaten  anything. 


272  NEPENTHE. 

"  I  took  along  some  butter,  and  was  glad  of  it,  there  were 
BO  many  poor  fellows  at  dinner  time  sitting  up  in  their  beds 
eating  a  piece  of  dry  toast,  without  anything  on  it  or  with 
it.  They  havn't  had  any  butter,  and  hardly  any  tea  or  fresh 
meat. 

"  Mother  Government  may  be  a  very  good  and  kind  mo 
ther,  and  provide  every  thing,  but  somehow  her  boys  don't 
get  it. 

"  If  one  of  those  gentlemen  were  sick  at  home,  they'd 
have  to  have  every  thing  just  so — the  sheets  just  so  white, 
smooth  and  clean,  the  room  perfectly  still,  and  every  possi 
ble  delicacy,  care  and  attention  given  them.  A  man  is 
three  times  the  oare  of  a  woman  when  he  is  sick — and  more 
depends  upon  good  care,  good  nursing  and  good  food,  than 
upon  medicine." 

"  It  is  too  bad,"  said  Kate,  "  when  a  man  is  sick,  he 
can't  be  home  and  be  taken  care  of." 

"  They  won't  let  them  go  home,"  said  Mrs.  Edwards, 
"  until  they  think  they  are  going  to  die,  and  then  they  keep 
them  drooping  and  dying  about  three  weeks,  waiting  for 
some  permission  or  some  kind  of  paper  to  go  to  Washington 
and  come  back.  By  the  time  the  paper  is  exactly  right,  the 
poor  fellows  are  too  far  gone  to  be  sent  home.  If  they  are 
sent,  they  die  on  the  way,  and  it  isn't  the  war  that's  killed 
them — it  is  the  hospital." 

"  I  believe  after  a  while  one  of  the  privates  won't  be  al 
lowed  to  sneeze  without  sending  toWashington  for  permis 
sion.  I'd  rather  trust  a  brother  of  mine  on  the  battle  field, 
than  have  him  languishing  in  a  crowded,  cheerless  hospital. 
I  met  Charity  Gouge  to-day.  She  was  in  deep  mourning, 
poor  thing.  Her  only  brother  was  killed  in  the  battle  ot" 
Fredericksburg.  I  did  feel  sorry  for  her,  she  almost  wor 
shipped  her  brother.  He  was  a  noble  fellow,  and  there 
wasn't  a  bit  of  Gouge  about  him.  The  Gouges  are  a  queer, 
miserly  set.  and  nobody  likes  them. 

"  I  don't  think  Charity  can  help  being  disagreeable.  Poor 
thing,  it  will  be  some  time  before  she  wears  those  elegant 
green  dresses." 

"  I  wanted  some  milk  porridge,"  continued  Mrs.  Ed 
wards,  "  for  those  diarrhea  patients.  They  needed  some 
thing  beside  dry  toast  and  strong  coffee — so  I  went  out 
about  noon  to  beg,  borrow  or  buy  a  little  milk.  I  walked 


NEPENTHE.  273 

all  around  the  place,  and  after  two  hours'  trying,  got  about 
two  quarts.  Nobody  offered  to  let  me  make  it  at  their 
houses,  and  all  looked  at  me  as  if  I  was  begging  cold  vic 
tuals  or  old  clothes  for  myself. 

"  One  wealthy  lady,  with  three  servants  and  an  elegant 
house,  told  me  I  could  probably  make  some  at  Mrs. 
McB  ride's. 

"  Mrs.  McBride  was  an  Irish  woman  who  lived  a  little 
way  off,  and  I  could  tell  her  Mrs.  Exclusin  told  me  to  go 
there. 

"  I  did  go  to  Mrs.  McBride's,  and  though  she  was  an 
Irish  woman,  and  poor,  with  no  servant,  and  five  small  chil 
dren,  her  heart  was  larger  than  Mrs.  Exclusin's  grand 
house.  She  gave  me  flour  and  salt,  and  cleaned  her  only 
little  iron  kettle  for  me  to  make  it  in. 

"  I  never  shall  forget  Mrs.  McBride,  and  if  one  of  her 
bright-eyed,  rosy-cheeked  boys  ever  lives  to  be  in  a  hospi 
tal,  I  know  he'll  be  taken  care  of.  I  am  sure  kindness  to 
the  sick  is  rewarded  in  this  life,  and,"  continued  Mrs.  Ed 
wards,  "  the  men  couldn't  have  looked  more  delighted  or 
grateful  for  a  cup  of  nectar  or  ambrosia  wreathed  with  dia 
monds  and  pearls,  than  they  seemed  with  that  one  saucer  of 
milk  porridge.  They  ate  like  hungry  children,  though 
hardly  strong  enough  to  raise  the  spoon  to  their  lips.  If  I 
could  have  had  fifty  quarts  instead  of  two  ! 

"  If  these  men  had  staid  at  home  they  might  earn  enough 
to  keep  them  in  luxury.  It  is  cruel  to  starve  and  stint  them 
so.  Some  had  six  months'  pay  owing  to  them,  and  couldn't 
buy  a  pint  of  milk  if  they  wanted  it,  for  they  hadn't  a  cent 
in  their  pockets.  When  they  were  near  Carlisle,  they  paid 
a  dollar  or  a  dollar  and  a  half  for  every  loaf  of  bread  they 
had,  so  it  didn't  take  long  at  that  rate  to  exhaust  what  little 
money  they  took  with  them  into  the  army. 

"  As  I  was  distributing  peaches  to  the  men  who  were  al 
lowed  to  eat  them,  one  poor  fellow  who  stood  up  near  me, 
with  a  big  shawl  around  his  shoulder,  held  out  his  hand  for 
a  peach.  As  he  took  it,  I  saw  gleaming  out  from  under  the 
shawl,  a  heavy  iron  chain  binding  his  hands  together.  It 
frightened  me  a  little.  I  didn't  know  but  the  man  had  been 
doing  something  criminal,  till  one  of  the  men  told  me  he  had 
brain  fever  and  was  insane.  Poor  fellow  !  he  was  the  finest 
looking  man  there.  Not  letting  him  see  that  I  noticed  tho 


274  NEPENTHE. 

chains,  which  he  evidently  tried  to  conceal  under  the  shawl, 
I  gave  him  another  peach  and  stood  still  and  let  him  talk. 
He  of  course  was  allowed  to  say  what  he  chose,  not  being 
held  responsible  for  his  words,  yet  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
method  in  his  madness. 

"  I  gave  the  men  little  packages  of  loaf  sugar  to  keep 
by  them  and  use  in  their  tea  when  they  had  tea.  I  gave 
him  a  package  and  turned  to  leave.  I  looked  around  and 
saw  him  with  the  paper  open  in  his  hand,  eating  up  the 
sugar. 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  do  you  like  sugar  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  and  I  havn't  seen  any  in  a  year  before. 
They  think  we  privates  have  no  souls.  The  doctor  says 
I  ought  to  have  fresh  meat  every  day,  and  I  havn't  had  any 
for  a  week.  And  this  coffee — I  can't  drink  coffee — it  goes 
to  my  head  so — "  Just  then  he  coughed.  "  Last  night  I 
caught  cold,  as  there  was  a  window  pane  out  close  by  the 
head  of  my  bed,  and  when  I  was  asleep  it  rained  in,  and  the 
sheets  and  bed  got  very  wet.  I'd  rather  die  than  be  here 
in  this  place  and  look  at  all  these  sick  people  ;  why,"  he 
added  in  a  whisper,  "  they  are  most  all  of  them  crazy. — 
But  do  you  know  there's  going  to  be  a  battle  to-day  ?"  and 
ho  shivered,  "  the  rebels  are  here,  and  I  must  go  and  shoot 
them,  but  don't  put  me  in  the  Chickahominy  swamps  again, 
it  makes  me  shake  so." 

"  That  man  is  going  to  rave,  lead  him  out,"  said  the  or 
derly  to  two  of  the  nurses.  They  were  inexperienced  young 
men,  members  of  the  same  regiment. 

"  Who  is  this  insane  man  ?"  I  asked. 

"  His  name  is  Curleyn,  and  he  has  been  unused  to  exer 
tion  or  fatigue.  I  don't  believe  when  he  enlisted  he  was 
strong  enough  to  march  with  his  knapsack  as  far  as  the  fer 
ry.  Once,  after  having  only  one  hard  tack  to  eat,  he  march 
ed  thirty-five  miles  in  one  day,  and  he  fell  exhausted  three 
times  in  that  day's  march." 

"  '  I  wish  I  had  a  lemon,  my  tongue  is  so  dry,'  said  a 
corpse-like  looking  man,  on  the  cot  bed  just  in  front  of  where 
I  stood.' 

"  '  Can't  you  give  that  man  a  lemon  ?"  said  I  to  the  order 
ly,  '  it  won't  hurt  him — it  may  do  him  good.' 

"  '  Nothing  will  do  him  good — the  man  is  going  to  die,  any 
how,'  said  the  orderly. 


NEPENTHE.  275 

"  '  Do  give  him  one,  sir,'  said  I,  '  it  may  be  of  some  com 
fort  to  him.' 

"  '  I  will,  to  gratify  you,  madam,'  he  replied,  in  a  civil, 
but  very  cool  tone,  as  he  went  off  and  came  back  with  a  lemon. 

"  The  poor  man  looked  so  glad  to  get  that  one  lemon.  It 
was  the  last  attention  his  poor  worn  out  body  required. 

"  I  looked  back  once  more,  to  see  the  young  boy,  only 
seventeen,  on  the  cot  just  by  the  door.  He  was  ill  with 
lung  fever.  My  heart  ached  for  him.  I  promised  him  some 
chicken  tea  next  time  I  came,  as  T  put  the  three  peaches  I 
had  left  in  his  hat  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  He  is  my  Ben 
jamin.  Somebody  ought  to  pet  him,  thought  I,  as  I  looked 
at  his  clear,  mild  blue  eye,  and  saw  the  patient  smile  on  his 
lips. 

"  Six  months  more,  and  some  of  those  men  were  back  to 
their  regiments,  some  had  died.  The  poor  man  who  was  so 
anxi  Us  to  have  the  lemon,  died  the  next  morning  after  I 
saw  him. 

"  But  this  hospital,"  added  Mrs.  Edwards,  "  isn't  a  type 
of  them  all.  It  is  one  of  those  improvised  hospitals,  so  de 
ficient  in  comfort,  system,  and  convenience." 

Kate  Howard  reads  in  an  evening  paper  a  report  from  the 
last  battle  field.  Among  the  missing  are  the  names — 

RICHARD  DOUGLASS, 
FREDERICK  HOWARD, 
FRANK  CARLEYN. 

Among  the  six  hundred  who  were  sent  on  in  advance  to 
make  that  perilous  and  almost  hopeless  attack,  poor  Freder 
ick  Howard  was  not  missing,  as  the  evening  paper  said. 
In  the  Morning  Herald  he  was  reported  killed.  He  was 
Kate's  only  brother.  Among  the  remnant  of  that  noble  com 
pany,  he  never  came  back. 

"  Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon«  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  behind  them 
Volleyed  and  thundered ; 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 

While  horse  and  hero  fell ; 

They  that  had  fought  so  well 

Came  through  the  jaws  of  hell, 

All  that  was  loft  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 


276  NEPENTHE. 


When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made 

All  the  world  wondered ! 
Honor  the  charge  they  made, 

Noble  six  hundred." 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

BACONIAN   PHILOSOPHY    ILLUSTRATED    IN    A    LITERAL    WAY. 

"  The  heart — the  heart  that's  truly  blest, 

Is  never  all  its  own; 
No  ray  of  glory  lights  the  breast 
That  beats  for  self  alone. 

And  though  it  throb  at  gentlest  touch, 

Or  sorrow's  faintest  call, 
'Twere  better  it  should  ache  too  much, 

Than  never  ache  at  all." 

"  Through  passionate  duty  love  flames  higher, 

As  grass  grows  taller  round  a  stone." — PATMORE. 

WINTER  and  Spring  passed  slowly  with  Nepenthe,  but 
midsummer  came  at  last.  There  was  a  vacation  in  the  School 
of  Design,  and  she  went  in  the  country  to  spend  a  few  weeks. 
She  travelled  over  the  same  journey  along  which  she  once 
rode  under  Carleyn's  protection.  The  mountains,  the  bridge, 
the  river,  Mrs.  Titus'  house,  looked  so  familiar,  and  there 
was  Levi  Longman,  as  large  as  life,  standing  in  front  of  Mrs. 
Titus'  door.  Hard,  cold,  cast-iron  features  like  his,  seldom 
change.  There  was  no  wear  and  tear  of  feeling  or  sympa 
thies  in  his  case.  His  broadcloth  was  of  one  long-established 
fit,  bidding  defiance  to  elegance  or  taste.  Still  he  taught 
the  young  ideas  in  Titusville  how  to  shoot,  and  to  shoot  up 
straight,  without  branching  out  in  any  centrifugal  or  fanciful 
direction.  His  circles  of  thought  and  instruction  were  all 
square — he  couldn't  make  anything,  either  of  solid  reason 
I  or  solid  wood,  without  having  a  line  and  angle  in  it  some 
where.  He  was  a  character.  If  you  could  see  him  walk 
only  across  the  street,  you  would  never  forget  that  striding, 
straight-forward,  angular  walk.  His  motions  were  all  angles. 
If  there  was  a  line  of  beauty,  he  always  moved  in  right 
angles  to  it. 

And  there  was  Mrs.  Titus,  sitting  in  her  little  front  win 
dow,  looking  out  as  usual  for  the  coming  stage. 


NEPENTHE.  277 

Nepenthe  soon  became  domesticated  with  a  pleasant  fam 
ily,  and  was  really  attached  to  the  children  belonging  to  it. 
There  was  one,  the  youngest,  pet  and  darling  of  the  house 
hold,  always  bringing  her  bunches  of  clover,  dandelions, 
ribbon  grass,  cowslips  and  buttercups. 

One  day,  as  she  sat  sewing  in  her  room,  she  heard  the 
voices  of  some  young  girls  talking  merrily  in  the  adjoining 
room.  One  of  them  had  evidently  been  visiting  the  city, 
and  her  companions  were  asking  her  questions  about  the 
news  and  the  fashions.  It  was  a  lively  chat  among  light- 
hearted  girls. 

"  Did  you  hear  anything,  Nellie,"  said  one  of  the  oldest, 
"  about  that  young  artist,  Carleyn,  who  took  Ernest  Titus' 
portrait  ?" 

"  Hear  anything  !  I  guess  I  did.  Every  body  was  talk 
ing  about  him.  But,  girls,  you  needn't  set  your  caps  for 
him  any  longer.  You  had  better  let  your  minds  get  consoli 
dated  down,  as  Miss  Prudence  Potter  used  to  say  when  we 
curled  our  hair  for  some  party,  or  begged  her  to  let  us  go 
off  sleigh-riding  with  the  boys.  You  must  hang  up  your 
harps  and  walk  on  the  bridge  of  sighs,  for  they  say  he  is 
going  to  be  married  soon  to  Miss  Elliott,  a  great  belle  in  the 
city — Miss  Florence  Elliott. 

"  I  saw  her  at  the  opera  one  night,  in  one  of  the  private 
boxes.  She  had  on  an  ermine  opera  cloak,  a  white  hat  and 
feathers.  She  was  elegantly  dressed,  but  somehow  I 
shouldn't  think  of  marrying  her  if  I  were  a  man.  She 
looked  so  haughty  and  proud,  as  if  the  air  ought  to  be  sifted 
for  her  special  breathing.  But  it  is  a  generally  understood 
thing.  She  is  certainly  very  much  in  love  with  him.  I 
went  out  a  great  deal  while  1  was  in  the  city.  I  was  only 
there  ten  days,  and  Jane  says  she  thinks  I  saw  more  and 
went  around  more  in  that  time  than  she  does  in  a  whole 
year.  People  who  live  in  the  city  think  they  can  go  around 
to  see  the  stars  and  lions  any  time  ;  so  some  of  them  go  very 
seldom.  But  we  country  folks  do  up  everything  in  a  week, 
and  it  is  pretty  hard  work,  being  out  so  late  every  night. 

"  I  went  to  one  wedding  reception.  Florence  Elliott  was 
there,  dressed  in  white  satin  trimmed  with  point  lace,  with 
white  natural  flowers  in  her  hair.  There  was  a  great  crowd 
there.  There  were  a  thousand  invitations.  There  were 
three  ushers— every  thing  in  style.  I  never  saw  such  a 


278  NEPENTHE. 

profusion  of  flowers.  There  were  flowers  in  every  possible 
place,  recesses,  niches,  or  tables.  I  lost  my  aunt  once  in 
the  crowd.  As  I  was  a  stranger,  I  felt  awkward,  and  stepped 
back  in  a  recess  behind  some  curtains  to  look  at  some  flow 
ers.  Hearing  low  voices  near,  I  looked  around,  and  I  could 
see  Florence  Elliott,  and  hear  her  talking  very  earnestly  in 
the  conservatory.  She  had  some  violets  in  her  hand..  I 
heard  a  gentleman — I  suppose  it  was  Mr.  Carleyn — say  to 
her  in  a  low  tone,  with  earnest  manner,  'I  have  come  to 
urge  you  to  fulfil  the  promise  you  half  made  me  yesterday.' 
My  aunt  came  for  me  just  then,  and  introduced  me  to  a 
Miss  Kate  Howard,  a  very  lively  young  lady.  But  I  am 
sure  of  one  thing- -Florence  Elliott  is  completely  fascinated 
with  Carleyn.  I  passed  her  with  the  same  gentleman  once 
after  that  in  the  crowd,  when  he  seemed  to  be  inquiring 
about  some  absent  j  erson.  I  heard  her  say,  '  I  don't  know 
where  she  is  staying  now.  I  believe  she  has  left  town.  I 
suppose  you  know  she  is  engaged  to  Mr.  William  Nicholson. 
I  am  sorry  for  her  sake  that  she  has  such  a  very  unhappy 
temper.  We  took  some  interest  in  her,  because  she  was 
poor.  She  will  do  very  well  to  marry  him.  Nepenthe  is  a 
girl  of  quite  good  natural  capabilities,  considering  her  ori 
gin  ;'  and  then,  as  she  said  this,  she  flirted  her  fan  with  such 
a  queenly  air,  and  coquettishly  twirled  her  bouquet. 

"  I  saw  her  once  before,  a  year  ago,  at  the  Academy  of 
Design.  She  was  beautiful  then — she  is  more  beautiful 
now.  Her  complexion  is  clearer  and  brighter,  her  form 
more  full,  and  her  voice  sweeter.  It  seems  as  if  a  beauti 
ful  soul  must  dwell  in  so  fair  a  temple.  But  she'll  never 
make  Carleyn  happy. 

"  When  I  was  at  school  four  years  ago  in  the  city,  she  was 
there  too.  I  was  one  of  the  small  fry,  and  of  course  of  no 
account — but  then  I  had  my  favorites  among  the  big  girls, 
as  we  used  to  call  them.  At  school  she  was  selfish,  impe 
rious,  domineering,  extremely  overbearing  to  all  those  she 
thought  not  rich  enough  to  move  in  her  set.  She  had  to  be 
the  leading  one  in  all  the  charades,  tableaux  and  private 
theatricals,  or  she  would  take  no  part.  She  was  in  a  perfect 
rage  once,  because  in  one  of  the  dramatic  readings  the  part 
of  Portia  was  not  assigned  to  her.  No  man  can  ever  chauge 
her.  But  where  do  we  see  a  couple  with  both  equally- 
agreeable  ?  Refined  men  of  real  genius  and  real  worth  are 


NEPENTHE.  279 

apt  to  get  haughty  and  unamiable  wives.  But  it  must  be 
her  beauty  suits  his  artistic  taste.  I  should  think  he  of  all 
men  would  admire  a  beautiful  face." 

Just  then  Mr.  Titus  came  in  with  some  large  bundles  in 
his  arms. 

"  I  saw  an  old  New  York  paper  to-day,  Eliza,"  said  he, 
to  Mrs.  Titus,  "  and  I  happened  to  read  the  marriages,  and 
the  very  first  one  I  read  was  Frank  Carleyn's." 

Mrs.  Titus  actually  dropped  the  bread  she  was  toasting, 
dropped  it  into  the  fire,  as  she  exclaimed,  "  Are  you  sure, 
Timothy  ?  And  who  has  he  married  ?'' 

"  I  think  it  was  a  Miss  Ellet,  or  something  like  that." 

"  Ellet— no,"  said  Mrs.  Titus.  "  Wasn't  it  Elliott  ?  The 
girls  were  talking  to-day  about  his  paying  some  attention  to 
a  Miss  Elliott.  It  must  be  she." 

"  Perhaps  it  was,"  said  Timothy,  "  but  I  think  it  was 
Ellet.  Any  how  it  was  Carleyn — Frank  Carleyn.  I'm  sure 
his  name  was  plain  enough  ;  the  lady  I'm  not  so  sure  of — I 
never  heard  her  name  before." 

"  No  matter  what  her  other  name  was,  she  has  a  better 
one  now,  and  I  hope  she  deserves  it,"  said  Mrs.  Titus  ;  "she 
is  a  very  happy  woman  to  get  him.  I  never  shall  forget 
how  feeling  he  was  when  Ernest  died.  If  he  should  go  to 
housekeeping,  wouldn't  I  like  to  send  him  some  of  my  nice 
cream,  and  some  of  the  big  blackberries  you  get  on  the 
mountain,  Timothy." 

'  And  some  of  our  nice  Lawtons  too,"  added  Timothy. 

"  You  must  be  mistaken,  Nellie,  about  seeing  Mr.  Frank 
Carleyn  at  that  reception  in  the  city,"  said  Kate  Lamont. 
"  I  am  sure  Mr.  Carleyn  joined  the  army  more  than  a  year 
ago.  He  may  have  married  Miss  Elliott  before  he  went, 
but  he  couldn't  have  been  in  the  city  when  you  were  there, 
for  it  was  just  about  that  time  I  read  his  name  in  the  Times 
among  the  '  missing,'  and  this  morning  there's  a  Frank  Car 
leyn,  company  G,  reported  '  killed.'  It  may  have  been 
some  other  Carleyn  you  saw  at  the  reception.  I  think  there 
is  a  Mr.  Charles  Carleyn  in  the  city.  He  may  be  a  cousin 
of  Frank's." 

Nepenthe  felt  as  if  her  soul  had  been  stunned  and  para 
lyzed  by  some  great  earthquake.  Her  heart  stood  still.  She 
couldn't  move  to  close  her  door  without  being  observed,  so 
she  sat  still. 


280  NEPENTHE. 

"  O,"  said  Mrs.  Titus,  "  don't  say  Mr.  Carleyn  is  killed. 
I  won't  believe  it  until  I  have  to.  If  he  had  been  a  good 
for  nothing  drunkard,  whom  nobody  wanted,  and  nobody 
needed,  he'd  gone  through  a  dozen  battles  and  come  back 
alive,  without  having  one  hair  of  his  useless  head  injured  ; 
but  men  whose  lives  are  worth  hundreds  of  others,  a  bless 
ing  to  everybody,  must  always  be  among  the  missing  or 
killed  ;"  and  Mrs.  Titus  could  say  no  more,  for  she  burst 
into  a  fit  of  sobbing. 

Just  then  one  of  the  little  girls  came  in  with  a  bunch  of 
fresh  flowers,  and  laid  them  on  Nepenthe's  lap — columbines, 
anemones,  and  evening  primroses.  "  Desertion,  forsaken, 
inconstancy,"  thought  Nepenthe,  as  she  took  the  flowers, 
whose  language  was  only  an  echo  of  the  language  of  her 
heart,  which  was  beating  violently. 

"  Do  come  and  play  with  us,  Miss  Nepenthe,"  said  the 
child,  pulling  her  dress,  "  only  just  a  little  while,"  she 
eagerly  added,  as  she  saw  Nepenthe  about  to  shake  her  head 
and  say,  "  Some  other  time." 

"  Do  come,  just  this  once  !"  said  the  child,  and  Nepenthe 
went  out  into  the  little  shaded  yard  at  the  side  of  the  house, 
where  a  group  of  children  were  playing  under  the  apple 
trees  : 

"  I'm  waiting  for  a  partner, 
I'm  waiting  for  a  partner  ; 
So  open  the  ring,  and  let  her  in, 
And  kiss  her  when  you  get  her  in." 

As  Nepenthe  joined  the  ring,  the  children  went  round 
and  round  in  merry  glee.  Nepenthe's  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  ground.  Her  thoughts  were  at  hard  sober  work,  while 
she  was  playing  with  the  light-hearted  children.  She  did 
not  notice  that  some  one  had  slipped  up  from  behind,  and 
joined  the  ring,  until  she  heard  some  one  from  the  middle 
of  the  circle,  in  a  familiar,  manly  voice,  singing, 

"  I'm  waiting  for  a  partner, 
I'm  waiting  for  a  partner  ;" 

and  in  one  moment  Frank  Carleyn  seized  and  impris' 
oued  both  of  her  hands,  and  drew  her  within  the  circle,  and 
kissed  her,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  children  at  seeing  big 
people  joining  so  heartily  in  their  play.  He  looked  pale, 
more  shadowy  and  spirituelle  than  ever — but  it  was  Carleyn 
still. 


NEPENTHE.  281 

Just  then  a  big  wagon  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  this  was 
the  signal  for  the  little  folks  to  pile  in,  as  they  were  going 
off  whortle-berrying.  They  all  went  but  two  little  ones, 
who  sat  down  on  the  door  step  to  read  over  aloud  the  stories 
of  the  Man  in  the  Bramble-bush,  Blue  Beard,  and  Jack  the 
Giant  Killer. 

"  Blue  Beard,"  said  Carleyn  to  Nepenthe,  taking  the 
book  from  the  child  and  looking  over  the  pictures,  "  was  one 
of  the  first  stories  I  read.  After  that,  I  can  remember  how 
we  children  huddled  together  around  the  hearth,  listening 
at  nightfall  to  tales  of  robbers,  ghosts  and  murders,  till  we 
were  afraid  to  stir,  lest  in  some  dark  closet,  or  lonely  cham 
ber,  we  might  meet  a  robber's  eye,  or  see  a  murderer's 
hand.  How  the  shadow  of  something  on  the  wall  of  the 
dimly  lighted  chamber  assumed  dark  and  terrible  shapes, 
and  we  drew  the  sheet  close  over  our  eyes  and  fell  asleep, 
to  dream  of  pale  ghosts  and  midnight  robbers.  The  self 
same  chill  creeps  over  me  still,  at  the  thought  of  those 
bloody  deeds  we  then  in  faney  witnessed.  Blue  Beard 
seems  even  now  a  half  reality,  and  the  hero  of  the  bramble- 
bush,  who  performed  in  so  brief  a  space  the  wondrous  feat 
of  losing  and  winning  his  eyes,  is  something  in  my  fancy, 
even  now,  half  real,  half  fabulous. 

"  It  is  strange  how  the  thing  we  really  believed  true  in 
our  childhood,  and  we  really  saw  in  fancy,  keeps  still  in  our 
minds  as  a  kind  of  fact.  These  first  pictures  of  t.he  youthful 
imagination  were  actually  carved  and  stained  on  the  walls  of 
the  heart,  to  which  all  after  pictures  seem  fancy  sketches, 
or  like  handbills  posted  up  new  every  day,  to  be  torn  down 
to-morrow  at  leisure  by  sober  reason.  The  early  toy-books 
are  the  old  masters,  whose  pictures  longest  hang  in  the  gal 
lery  of  the  soul,  and  every  holiday  we  brush  off  the  dust  of 
years,  and  find  them  bright  still." 

"  Santa  Glaus  will  always  seem  to  me  like  something 
real,"  said  Nepenthe. 

"  Yes,"  said  Carleyn,  "  he  was  an  immortal,  ever  welcome 
hero  in  the  land  of  my  childhood.  We  exile  him  in  after 
years  from  the  land  of  facts,  yet  still  is  his  portrait  hung  in 
fast  colors  by  the  heart's  fire-side.  Like  the  wandering  Jew, 
We  still  see  his  imaginary  form  each  Christmas  morning,  as 
we  hear  the  rattle  of  miniature  drums,  and  the  clang  of  lilli- 
putian  trumpets.  Siubad  the  Sailor  has  started  floating 


252  NEPENTHE. 

masts  and  swelling  sails  across  the  sea  of  many  a  young 
imagination." 

"  Yes,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  and  the  Children  of  the  Abbey 
has  waked  a  good  deal  of  romance  in  many  a  young  girl's 
head  ;  and  that  illustrious  Man  of  the  Moon,  so  talked  about 
in  childhood,  whose  jagged  eyebrows  I  actually  saw  when  a 
child,  is  still  a  real  picture  in  my  mind.  I  often  see  him 
glaring  ominously  over  my  left  shoulder,  some  lonely  even 
ings." 

"  And  poor  unlucky  Friday,"  said  Carleyn,  "  is  still  to 
many,  not  good,  but  bad  Friday — and  I  myself,  I  will  own 
it,  would  a  little  rather  commence  a  journey  on  some  other 
day,  although  the  journey  I  once  took  on  a  Friday  in  a  thun 
der-storm,  ended  very  pleasantly  after  all.  I  often  think," 
said  he,  "  I'd  like  to  be  a  child  again,  and  live  once  more  in 
that  realm  lit  up  with  Aladdin's  lamp,  so  wondrous  wise  witL 
mysteries  and  haunted  by  fairies,  who  kept  our  thoughts 
like  little  Micawbers,  always  waiting  for  something  to  turn 
up.  But,"  said  he,  looking  up  at  the  western  sky,  "  we  are 
going  to  have  a  beautiful  sunset.  Let  us  take  a  ramble  over 
the  fields  and  then  down  the  lane,  where  there  is  a  fine  echo, 
and  in  an  hour  or  two  we  can  see  the  sun  set  over  the  water. 
There  are  a  great  many  bright  things  in  the  world  for  grown 
up  people  to  enjoy.  We  have  our  ideals  still." 

"  But  we  never  find  our  ideals,  say  many  practical  expe 
rienced  people,''  said  Nepenthe. 

"  That  is  not  true,"  said  Carleyn.  "  I'll  show  you  mine, 
some  time." 

They  rambled  half  an  hour,  and  at  last  they  came  to  an 
old  well,  deep  and  moss-grown,  under  a  beautiful  chestnut 
tree. 

"  The  philosopher  says  we  can  find  truth  at  the  bottom  of 
a  deep  well,"  said  Carleyn.  "  Look  down,  Miss  Nepenthe, 
and  see  how  deep  this  well  is." 

As  she  bent  over  and  looked  down  the  well,  "  See,"  said 
Carlyn,  as  he  looked  over  her  shoulder,  "  there — there  is 
my  ideal,  reflected  in  the  bottom  of  the  well ;  and  my  ideal 
is  truth  itself.  I  hope  it  will  never  vanish  away  and  leave 
me,  as  children's  ideals  do." 

He  drew  her  away  from  the  well,  and  they  sat  down  un 
der  the  tree.  As  he  went  on  twining  a  wreath  of  oak  leaves, 
he  said,  "  There  is  another  well  of  affection  in  the  bottom 


NEPENTHE.  283 

of  my  heart,  where  I  see  reflected  the  imago  of  my  ideal. 
Whenever  I  look  down  into  my  heart,  I  see  the  shadow  of 
that  beautiful  image.  I  wish  I  could  draw  it" 

"  Here  they  are  !  hero  they  are!  we've  found  them  at 
last,"  screamed  a  group  of  noisy  children,  hurrying  to  the 
old  well  all  out  of  breath,  with  baskets  and  pails  full  of  ber 
ries. 

"  See,  see,  Miss  Nepenthe,  how  many  I've  got,"  said  the 
foremost  one  ;  "  and  these  are  for  you,"  she  added,  handing 
a  cup  made  of  two  leaves  filled  with  berries  to  Nepenthe  ; 
"  and  these  are  for  you,  Mr.  Carleyn,"  said  Mrs.  Titus'  or 
phan  niece,  handing  him  a  basketful. 

I  wonder  if  the  simple-hearted  children  really  though! 
Nepenthe's  brimming  eyes  and  blushing  cheeks  and  brigh' 
smiles  were  caused  by  her  excessive  joy  at  the  sudden  sight 
of  so  many  unexpected  berries.  Certainly  her  eyes  never 
had  such  light  before  ;  the  dawn  of  happiness  was  coming 
to  her  soul  ;  she  walked  on  home  with  Frank  Carleyn  and 
the  children,  who  were  tired  enough  for  once  to  walk  as 
slowly  as  older  people. 

The  wreath  of  oak-leaves  was  twined  around  Nepenthe's 
oloomer.  That  night,  by  moonlight,  Carleyn  showed  Nepen 
the  the  depths  of  his  warm  heart — he  finished  the  sentence 
so  unceremoniously  interrupted — he  asked  her  at  last  the 
one  question  in  love's  short  catechism,  and  we  leave  her  to 
say  what  you,  fair  reader,  would  say  under  such  exciting 
circumstances,  and  the  best  wish  we  can  make  fur  you,  fair 
and  gentle  as  you  may  be,  is  that  some  time  some  noble- 
gifted  and  good  man  may  ask  you  the  same  question  Carleyn 
did  Nepenthe,  that  you  may  give  the  same  short  answer,  and 
have  as  sweet,  bright  dreams  on  your  pillow  that  night,  and 
he  find  in  your  image  ever  after  this  ideal  of  U'uth,  when  he 
looks  into  the  clear  depths  of  his  manly  heart. 

Not  until  Nepenthe  became  his  wife,  did  she  reveal  to 
Frank  how  his  image  had  so  long  been  imprinted  within  her 
heart,  and  that  she  was  the  little  pale  girl  at  the  hospital, 
on  whose  pillow,  years  ago,  he  had  lain  those  beautiful  flow 
ers.  And  now  to  her,  life  seemed  pillowed  with  flowers, 
the  air  never  before  so  fragrant.  Little  buds  were  opening 
down  in  her  heart,  so  fresh  and  green,  after  that  sad  shower 
of  hopeless  tears,  such  a  rainbow  spanned  her  soul.  And 
that  promise  of  Frank's,  to  love,  cherish  and  protect,  was  a 


284  NEPENTHE. 

sure  pledge  that  while  he  lived  the  fountain  of  sorrow  should 
never  more  quite  orerflow  the  springs  of  happiness.  While 
she  nestled  quietly  in  the  ark  of  his  strong  manly  heart,  she 
eould  outride  with  him  life's  roughest  tempest  and  highest 
billo\v. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you,  reader,  that  Frank  Carleyn  had  a  cou 
sin  killed  in  battle,  of  the  same  name  as  himself,  and  a 
great  many  people  thought  for  weeks  it  was  our  artist  friend  ; 
but  he  was  in  the  hospital  for  several  weeks,  very  ill  with 
that  frightful  brain  fever,  of  which  as  yet  he  has  said  no 
thing  to  Nepenthe  ;  and  then,  too,  he  was  taken  prisoner, 
after  lying  on  the  field  wounded,  two  whole  days,  without 
food.  It  was  there  Kate  Howard  read  his  name  in  the  even 
ing  paper : 

"  Private  Frank  Carleyn,  missing." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

CARLEYN'S  IDEAL. 

How  wise  in  all  she  ought  to  know, 
How  ignorant  of  all  beside  ! 

THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HODSE. 

If  thou  HA.ST  something,  bring  thy  goods,  a  fair  return  be  thine, 
If  thou  AKT  something,  bring  thy  soul  and  interchange  with  mine. 

SCHILLER. 

Is  she  rich,  young,  handsome,  and  highly  connected  ? 

"  Important  questions  truly,"  said  Carleyn. 

"  Were  you  appointed  a  committee  of  investigation,  you 
might  return  with  a  decided  negative  to  them  all — and  they 
are  questions  I  cannot  answer  with  monosyllables.  I  know, 
Mr.  Selwyn,  you  are  not  actuated  by  mere  idle  curiosity,  so 
I  will  answer  you  candidly.  She  is  not  rich  ;  but  when  I 
think  of  her  as  poor,  there  comes  to  my  mind  that  verse  in 
the  Bible  which  I  used  to  hear  repeated  so  often  by  an  old 
minister — '  rich  in  faith,  heirs  of  the  kingdom.'  I  almost 
reverence  her  simple  rare  beauty  and  affluent  loveliness. 

"  She  is  young,  but  were  she  still  younger  or  much  older, 
my  admiration  and  affection  could  not  diminish.  Her  mind 
is  stored  with  thoughts,  her  soul  with  feelings,  rich,  deep, 


NEPENTHE.  2S5 

exhaustless.  No,  she  is  not  poor,  so  highly  gifted  by  Na 
ture  with  dower  richer  than  Eastern  princess  ;  without  her 
I  am  poor,  but  in  her  presence  earth  and  air  are  clothed 
with  radiant  beauty.  I  have  found  my  ideal  wife  at  last, 
and  in  the  loveliest  of  frames. 

"  I  know  not  how  she  is  connected,  and  care  not  to  trace 
her  history.  I  believe,  in  spite  of  dark  whispers  often  re 
peated  in  my  ears,  that  naught  but  pure  and  good  ever 
claimed  alliance  with  such  as  she.  Without  caring  to  inves 
tigate  her  earliest  history,  I  am  willing  to  stand  by  her  side 
and  share  her  destiny,  without  knowing  the  fate  or  history 
of  any  who  may  claim  relationship  to  her. 

"  She  is  lovely,  and  gifted  enough  to  move  with  honor 
and  grace  in  any  earthly  circle.  No  position  can  elevate 
her.  She  will  elevate  every  du+y  she  performs,  every  posi 
tion  she  fills  ;  and  she  is  fitted  to  shine  hereafter  among  the 
spirits  of  the  just  made  perfect  in  heaven. 

"  It  shall  be  the  aim  of  my  life  to  make  her  happy.  The 
trials  through  which  she  so  early  passed  have  given  a  sub 
limity  and  a  sacredness  to  her  character  which  makes  me 
well  nigh  worship  her.  She  is  at  an  infinite  remove  from 
those  gay  butterfly  creatures  which  haunt  watering  places 
and  parties. 

"  I  could  not  enshrine  upon  the  altar  of  my  heart  an  im 
age  so  decked. 

"  The  life  we  live  is  too  brief  to  spend  it  with  one  who 
has  no  lofty  principle,  no  truer  aim  or  object  in  living,  than 
to  show  and  shine,  dazzle  and  attract. 

"  Like  a  flower  in  a  shaded,  lone  vailey  she  was  lovely 
and  beautiful  when  alone,  neglected  and  unsought — the  only 
woman  I  have  known  in  society  whose  aim  was  not  some 
times,  or  all  the  time,  effect." 

"  If,"  said  Selwyn,  "  she  is  the  picture  hung  up  in  jour 
heart's  studio  so  long  ago,  I  long  to  see  the  lovely  counter 
part." 

"  I  have  not,"  said  Carleyn,  "  wedded  my  heart  to  a  hand, 
a  foot,  or  an  eye,  but  she  seems  all  soul.  I  know  not  by 
what  avenue  she  found  the  subterranean  passage  to  my  heart 
— before  I  knew  it,  1  was  surrounded  by  an  influence  I 
could  not,  would  not  resist.  I  have  boasted  of  my  insensi 
bility,  but  the  touch  of  that  little  hand  thrills  my  soul,  and 
makes  a  child,  a  happy  child  of  me." 


286  NEPENTHE. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  talking  the  floor,  "  I  thought  once,  in 
deed  Miss  Elliott  herself  gave  me  the  impression  that  Ne 
penthe  was  engaged  to  the  wealthy  Mr.  Nicholson,  and  then 
I  found  out  how  much  I  really  loved  her,  and  how  essential 
she  was  to  my  happiness  ;  then  I  found  out  I  could  not  live 
without  her.  Yes,"  said  he,  walking  back  and  forth,  "  she 
will  make  me  wiser,  happier,  better." 

"  How  did  you  find  out  that  Miss  Stuart  was  not  engaged 
to  Mr.  Nicholson  ?"  said  Mr.  Selwyn,  with  some  curiosity  in 
his  manner. 

'•  Miss  Elliott  told  me  positively  that  she  was,"  said  Car- 
leyn.  "  Of  course  I  believed  it ;  and  to  strengthen  rny  be 
lief  in  her  engagement,  some  one,  (I  have  no  idea  who)  ac 
tually  caused  an  opened  love-letter,  pretended  to  be  written 
from  Mr.  Nicholson  to  Nepenthe  to  come  accidentally  in  my 
way. 

"  I  thought  it  strange,  but  supposed  the  letter  a  veritable 
document  and  authentic,  as  the  writing  was  certainly  like 
Miss  Nepenthe's.  But  one  day  I  heard  Mr.  Nicholson 
muttering  angrily  to  himself  something  like  this — that  he 
should  never  be  such  a  fool  as  to  break  his  heart  for  one 
little  woman  if  she  didn't  want  him — he  was  sure  there  were 
as  many  good  fish,  &c.  Then  Mr.  Vole  told  me  afterwards, 
that  Nicholson  had  been  refused  by  somebody,  he  couldn't 
find  out  who,  and  he  was  really  a  little  sore  about  it.  He 
was  still  surprised  that  any  sensible  woman  could  refuse  his 
great  fortune  and  his  well-dressed  self.  To  him  it  was  un 
accountable.  He  at  first  thought  the  refusal  only  an  evi 
dence  of  diffidence,  and  renewed  his  offers  ;  but  he  had  to 
believe  at  last  that  even  a  portionless  girl  did  not  want  him 
for  her  husband.'' 

"  Then  you  mean  to  marry  her,  and  give  up  all  the  fine 
chances.  There's  Florence  Elliott,  a  beauty  and  an  heiress 
if  rumor  speak  correctly — you  have  already  a  favorable 
place  in  her  heart." 

"  Florence  Elliott  is  beautiful,  radiantly  beautiful,  but  I 
never  feel  like  clasping  her  to  my  heart,  or  confiding  in  her. 
I  think  of  her  as  a  wonderful  fine  painting,  with  its  great 
'  sweep  of  hand  and  dash,'  but  not  as  a  being  I  long  to  pro 
tect — not  as  a  woman  with  a  gentle,  loving  heart.  I  cannot 
agree  with  Pope — 


NEPENTHE.  287 

"  If  to  her  share  some  penal  errors  fall, 

Look  to  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  them  all." 

Grace  is  in  her  step,  but  not  '  heaven  in  her  eye.'  " 

"  It  would  be  a  good  thing  for  you  to  marry  a  rich  wife," 
said  Selwyn. 

"  In  my  ideas  of  marriage,"  said  Mr.  Carleyn,  "policy 
has  never  entered.  I  am  glad  I  can  support  a  wife.  It  is 
a  pleasant  thought  that  I  can  have  one  being  dependent  up 
on  me  alone  for  care,  protection,  and  support. 

"  In  entering  the  holy  estate  of  matrimony  no  such  sordid 
considerations  should  be  thought  of.  There  are  many  mar 
riages  in  the  world  without  love.  I  am  romantic  enough  to 
marry  for  love,  and  I  am  vain  enough  to  think  she  will  marry 
me  for  myself — what  I  really  am." 

"  How  is  it,  Carleyn,"  said  Selwyn,  "  that  you  never  act 
at  all  conceited — never  elated  with  the  distinction  you  have 
gained  as  an  artist,  a  distinction  very  flattering  to  a  young 
man  ?" 

"  My  mother  taught  me,"  said  Carleyn,  "  a  long  time 
ago,  a  maxim  she  had  learned  from  an  old  book — '  Do  all 
the  good  you  can  in  the  world,  and  make  as  little  noise  about 
it  as  possible  ;'  and  then  I  have  in  my  own  mind  an  ideal 
so  much  higher  than  any  standard  to  which  I  have  attained, 
that  I  have  no  feeling  of  vanity — no  inclination  to  boast : 
and  my  heart  is  so  far  from  reaching  its  standard  of  right, 
its  standard  of  moral  worth.  I  know  and  feel  every  day 
that  it  is  a  very  good  thing  to  be  great,  but  it  is  a  far  great 
er  thing  to  be  good." 

Carleyn  writes  in  his  journal  that  night  this  sentence — 
"  Dim  the  blaze  of  science,  hush  the  voice  of  song,  veil  the 
face  of  sculptured  beauty,  hide  the  loveliest  embodiment  of 
the  artist's  ideal,  remove  all  the  rarest,  choicest,  and  costli 
est  productions  of  genius,  and  the  bereaved  world  would 
not  be  half  so  desolate  as  if  deprived  of  goodness,  lives  pure 
and  conscientious,  principles  of  moral  worth,  deeds  of  every 
day  piety — those  silent  invisible  influences  perfect  and  pe 
rennial,  preserving  pure  and  clear  the  turbulent  fountains 
of  life." 


288  NEPENTHE. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

THE    HEART   AT   MIDSUMMER — FROM    THE    LIFE. 

Our  great  High  Priest  above,  alone, 
In  temple  of  the  heart  hath  throne ; 
At  inmost  holy  shrine  He  bends, 
In  twain  the  mystic  curtain  rends. 

WHAT  a  wonderful  thing  expression  is !  It  makes  some 
plain  faces  beautiful,  some  beautiful  features  ugly.  Some 
times  a  worn  and  weary  pallid  face,  lit  by  its  strange  glory, 
will  wear  a  saintly,  a  martyr-like,  an  angelic  glow. 

"  I  don't  like  his  expression,"  we  say,  as  we  meet  some 
repellent  face,  with  perhaps  an  Apollo  cut  of  features,  and 
gather  up  our  spiritual  garments,  and  hurry  by,  as  if  to  es 
cape  some  moral  contagion,  or  flee  some  deadly  malaria. 

Have  you  ever  had  company,  reader,  when  you  couldn't 
make  anybody  talk,  or  sing,  or  dance,  or  play  ;  till  you  start 
up  at  last,  suddenly  and  desperately  determined  to  get  up 
something  to  entertain  them,  for  there  they  all  sit,  with  their 
clean  collars  and  silk  dresses,  and  don't  stir  or  say  a  word. 
You  try  Copenhagen,  and  Proverbs,  and  Stage  Coach,  and  at 
last,  to  get  them  thoroughly  wide  awake,  you  set  them  per 
forming  the  very  graceful  original  and  astonishing  evolutions 
of  "  Queen  Dido  is  dead."  After  deciding  conclusively  by 
manual,  cerebral  and  pedal  logic  how  she  did  die,  the  col 
lars  and  silk  dresses  begin  to  assume  their  stiff  silence 
again,  and  some  one,  not  you,  for  you  are  afraid  to  break  the 
rich  repose  of  your  new  mahogany  and  marble — some  one 
starts  blind  man's  buff.  Chairs  fly,  bijouterie  rattles,  tables 
tremble,  and  you  think  you  hear  a  faint  sound  of  creaking 
rosewood.  You  at  length  cunningly  maneuvre  them  into 
the  more  sensible  and  suggestive  game  of  "  What  is  my 
Thought  like  ?"  which  brings  out  in  mirthful  flashes  the 
profound  erudition  and  metaphysical  acumen  of  the  gay  cir 
cle  around  you,  who  can  boast,  many  of  them,  of  sixteen 
years  of  girlhood's  thoughts. 


NEPENTHE.  289 

When  the  girls  are  all  gone,  as  you  put  the  chairs  up  in 
their  old  places,  all  but  one  poor  unfortunate,  whose  broken 
back  you  hide  away  in  the  extension,  to  await  its  morning's 
dose  of  Spalding's  marvellous  rheumatic  glue,  you  extin 
guish  the  lights,  and  sit  and  think  and  wonder.  What  is 
thought  like  ?  Thought,  Feeling,  Expression  !  They  make 
up  life's  world — they  give  us  calm  sleep,  peaceful  dreams, 
or  frightful  nightmare,  and  an  aching  pillow.  They  can 
make  sweet  bitter,  and  turn  twilight's  serene  rest  into  mid 
night's  turbulent  tempest. 

If  I  could  only  have  caught  and  copied  the  expression  on 
Carleyn's  face,  as  he  sat  reading  in  his  mother's  Bible,  this 
first  verse  that  met  his  eye  as  he  opened  the  book.  It  was 
marked  by  her  pale  hand  with  a  pencil,  only  a  few  days  be 
fore  she  died  :  "  Withhold  not  good  from  any  to  whom  it  is 
due,  when  it  is  in  the  power  of  thine  hand  to  do  it."  It 
was  the  text  of  that  self-denial  sermon  he  heard  when  a  boy. 
It  brought  back  a  tide  of  golden  memories.  Go  where  he 
would,  the  words  still  whispered  to  him  their  clear,  yet  im 
perative  echoes.  As  he  read  them  slowly  aloud,  there  came 
a  look  into  his  face,  such  as  man's  face  seldom  .wears.  It 
was  a  blending  of  will  and  purpose,  regret,  resignation,  no 
bility,  faith  and  enthusiasm  in  one  single  soul-ray — for  ex 
pression  is  only  a  soul-ray.  The  face  is  like  a  window  shut 
ter  in  the  dark,  through  which  thought's  prismatic  colors 
gleam.  Sometimes  you  almost  see  a  faint  violet  purpling 
the  east  of  the  soul — though  these  mysterious  soul-rays  have 
their  genuine  heat  and  noble  expansion,  but  no  vision  or  color, 
yet  visions  colored  with  wondrous  beauty — those  beatific 
soul-beams — wake  in  us,  as  they  gleam  out  from  loving  hu 
man  faces. 

I  thought  as  I  watched  the  stars  last  night,  coming  out  one 
after  another  at  evening's  reception,  our  souls  are  like  con 
stellations  instarred  with  thoughts,  moving  around  the  great 
Father-Soul,  wearing  their  incadescent  noonday  glow  as  they 
turn  towards,  or  eclipsed  in  midnight's  shadow  as  they  turn 
away  from  the  full-orbed  Central — or  wandering  out  of  their 
predestined  path  far  from  the  sphere  of  true  attraction — 
falling  like  once  radiant  aeriolites,  heavy  and  cold  and  dark 
to  the  earth. 

It  is  a  beautiful  proof  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  that 
no  imagery  like  that  of  stars  and  suns  and  skies  and  clouds 

13 


290  NEPENTHE. 

fitly  type  its  glory,  or  dimly  shadow  its  beauty.  Like  the 
music  of  celestial  spheres,  these  vibratory  soul  waves  move 
with  spheral  harmony  in  one  beautiful  diatonic  scale,  with 
its  deep,  grave  unisons,  its  multiplied  octaves,  its  greater 
and  lesser  tones  of  melody,  and  so  mysteriously  alternating 
sweet  sound  and  mute  silence,  break  the  profoundest  hush  of 
every  soul. 

You  might  search  the  records  of  the  Church  of  the  As 
cension,  where  Carleyn  had  a  pew  for  five  years,  and  you 
wouldn't  find  his  name  ;  but  among  that  invisible  congrega 
tion,  the  Church  of  the  Ascension  of  Great  Souls,  his  thoughts 
worshipped  and  communed.  His  was  a  heart  for  clinging 
and  comfort,  consolation  and  care  taking  ;  one  to  whom  you 
could  frankly  and  fearlessly  turn,  when  pushed  aside  by 
some  rough  soul,  and  thrust  back  into  your  shell  like  some 
despised  snail,  till  you  despairingly  wished  you  were  all 
Crustacea,  soul  and  all. 

Some  natures  you  meet,  mine  them  never  so  deeply,  are 
all  strikes,  fauHa,  and  fire-damps  ;  up-turn  the  whole  soul- 
strata,  and  you'll  find  not  a  fragment  that  has  a  genial,  gen 
uine  anthracite  glow  ;  but  Carleyn's  soul,  stir  it,  probe  it, 
mine  it  as  you  would,  there  was  the  ring  of  the  true  metal, 
the  gleam  of  the  pure  gold. 

Have  you  never  looked  out  of  your  window,  reader,  some 
balmy,  still  afternoon  in  April,  when  a  shower  had  given  the 
earth  a  deeper  emerald,  the  sky  a  clearer  sapphire,  and  the 
rose  a  more  ruby  glow  ?  So  these  words  of  wisdom  from  the 
lips  of  the  preacher  had  fallen  like  April  benedictions 
upon  Carleyn's  boyish  soul.  Duty's  clouded  sky  had  worn 
a  clearer  sapphire,  faith's  parched  hillside  path  a  deeper 
emerald,  little,  withering  ruby  hope-buds  had  grown  rubier, 
the  skylark  of  happiness  was  soaring  and  singing  in  the  still 
air  of  peace,  life's  once  turbid  river  was  winding  along  the 
banks  of  care,  clear,  overflowing  and  beautiful. 

Carleyn  sat  and  thought.  If  artist  only  could  sketch  and 
shade  and  finish  a  good  man's  noble  and  beautiful  .soul,  how 
wonderful,  rare  and  radiant  the  picture,  taken  after  a  mid 
summer  shower  of  kindness  !  The  heart  at  midsummer, 
from  the  life  !  Everybody  with  a  heart  would  hurry  to  see 
it.  Eyes  classic  and  scholastic,  aesthetic  and  rustic,  would 
linger  long  and  gaze  upon  it  often.  Goupil  and  Schaus,  and 
Art's  famed  academies  and  most  illustrious  galleries,  might 


NEPENTHE.  291 

strive  for  the  first  opportunity  to  exhibit  it.  All  sovereigns 
gladly  claim  this  new  Columbus,  long  voyaging  with  the  airy 
fleets  of  fancy,  discovering  and  revealing  at  last  this  terra 
incognita,  this  long  talked  of  first  view  of  the  heart.  No 
diadem  so  impearled  as  to  worthily  cro^n  the  happy  artist 
who  could  successfully  execute  this  great  picture.  With 
wreaths  of  living  emerald,  the  University  of  Time  would 
confer  upon  him  the  immortal  honors  of  the  world's  poet 
laureate. 

Reader  !  lay  aside  your  knitting,  crocheting  or  embroi 
dery — don't  keep  looking  at  that  clock  on  the  mantel,  put 
off  for  to-day  that  calling,  promenading,  shopping,  lay  aside 
until  to-morrow  that  new  dress,  whose  elaborate  braiding 
and  endless  fluting  puzzle  and  weary  you,  and  make 
your  head  and  eyes  ache  so.  You  can  wear  that  black  silk 
one  more  Sunday,  and  besides  it  may  rain,  and  if  you  are  a 
modern  genteel  young  lady,  you  never  go  to  church  when  it 
rains.  So  far  as  I  can  judge  from  the  looks  of  the  pews,  it 
isn't  fashionable — few  besides  good  old  deacons  go.  As  for 
our  gable  porters  and  weather-proof  Bridgets,  they  go,  but 
of  course  they  are  no  patterns  for  us.  But  it  is  pleasant  to 
day,  and  don't  sit  with  tha£  frown  on  your  brow,  waiting  for 
that  trouble  which  you  are  sure  is  coming  in  to-day's  express 
train  of  evils — don't  stop  to  bundle  up  so  warmly  and  nurse 
so  persistently  that  little  homely,  hungry,  noisy  regret.  It 
may  die  of  itself  if  you  let  it  alone.  Lock  the  door,  close 
the  shutters,  and  say  for  once,  you  are  not  at  home  to  Care ; 
don't  open  the  door,  no  matter  how  she  thumps  and  pounds 
and  rings  and  knocks. 

Trouble  will  sometimes  go  away  discouraged,  if  you  keep 
perfectly  quiet,  and  say  not  at  home  to  her.  Let  Care"  go 
off  for  once  without  coming  in.  She'll  go  somewhere  else. 
She  has  a  long  list  of  visits  to  make  before  night.  Care  is 
always  calling  around  till  dark,  and  sometimes  she's  out  all 
night,  disturbing  people  with  her  doleful  serenades.  I 
know,  for  she  has  kept  me  awake  many  a  night.  Leave  this 
bread-and-butter  world  awhile,  and  come  look  with  me  at  an 
old  picture,  which  has  hung  in  my  soul  for  years. 

Reader,  you  are  the  only  person  to  whom  I  have  ever  tried 
to  show  it,  and  I  suppose  you'll  never  speak  of  it,  or  betray 
the  confidence  between  us.  It  is  among  a  collection  of 
paintings  strictly  private.  Sometimes  it  looks  like  a  photo- 


292  NEPENTHE. 

graph,  and  then  at  other  times  I  really  think  it  is  an  original 
of  the  greatest  of  Masters.  I  found  it,  early  one  morning, 
as  I  was  clearing  away  some  of  the  rubbish  in  my  soul's 
garret ;  and  as  I  can  never  move  it  from  where  it  hangs, 
just  wait  a  moment,  while  I  brush  away  the  dust,  let  in  the 
light,  and  unfold  the  canvas,  and  try  to  show  it  to  you  as 
it  looks  to  me.  If  some  famous  artist  could  bring  it  out, 
it  might  make  a  sensation  in  the  art  world — but  as  for 
me,  I  have  never  handled  a  pallet  or  touched  a  brush  in  my 
life,  and  I'm  too  old  to  begin  now.  Yet  I  can  sketch  a  little 
from  nature  rudely  and  crudely  with  the  stump  of  an  old 
pencil  ;  but  I  can  see  if  I  can't  create,  and  I  have  seen  this 
picture  in  all  kinds  of  lights.  I  have  gazed  at  it  by  dawn- 
light  and  twilight,  moonlight  and  starlight,  dreamlight  and 
daylight,  real  light  and  ideal  light.  I've  been  charmed  with 
its  shadowy  profiles,  its  wreathed  ignettes,  its  magnificent 
full  lengths,  with  their  clear,  striking  and  graceful  high, 
low,  and  mezzo  reliefs.  I  can  see  them  as  plainly  on  a  clear 
day,  when  there's  no  fog  about  me,  as  you  can  the  green 
blinds  and  stone  steps  of  that  house  across  the  way. 

Don't  say  you  can't  waste  time  looking  at  it ;  you  always 
read  a  story  right  through,  and*  skip  the  poetizing  and  mor 
alizing.  That  is  not  the  way  you  take  life,  in  one  big  su 
gar  pill,  and  all  at  once.  Life  has  its  epics,  novel,  exciting 
and  brilliant ;  all  the  better  for  its  calm  quiet  periods  and 
semicolons  of  rest  between.  A  book  is  a  journey,  with  not 
all  picturesque  mountains,  refreshing  shade  trees  and  glow 
ing  sunsets. 

There's  many  a  dusty  road  where  you  trudge  along  un 
der  reason's  hot  sun,  in  Thought's  old  gray  overcoat,  till 
you  come  at  last  through  the  cool  trees  to  the  green  fields 
and  flowers  again  ;  and  see  how  life's  story  is  coming  out, 
and  God's  great  book  of  nature  has  many  a  rough  stony  by 
path  between  its  cool  green  epics  and  fragrant  episodes. 
You  enjoy  a  good  breakfast  and  an  excellent  dinner,  but 
would  you  like  to  hear  the  dinner  bell  ringing  all  the  day 
long,  though  a  perpetual  and  never  so  delicious  a  repast 
were  awaiting  you  below  ? 

Don't  be  in  such  a  worry  and  fidget  to  get  the  first  seat  in 
the  crowded  car  of  life,  that  you  may  be  the  first  to  hurry 
over  the  ferry  of  thought,  and  ride  up  the  great  Broadway 


NEPENTHE.  293 

of  excitement.  Better  be  last  at  a  milliner's  opening,  than 
never  attend  a  levee  of  soul. 

Don't  say  it  is  too  ideal  or  too  transcendental — you  have 
worked  so  long  through  busy  Saturdays  and  toilsome  Mon 
days,  what  if  you  should  spend  one  whole  day  grouping  and 
bouquetting  soul-flowers,  chasing  butterfly  fancies,  or  gath 
ering  sweetbriar  thoughts.  You'll  work  better  after  a  holi 
day  in  the  pleasant  groves  of  dream-land.  You  won't  meet 
with  any  flirtations  or  adventures,  but  you  may  sit  and  talk 
with  cool  refreshing  thoughts,  and  wreath  with  fresh  wild 
flowers  some  dear  little  orphan  memory  you'd  almost  for 
gotten. 

I  never  look  at  anything  beautiful  but  I  long  for  some  one 
to  see  it  with  me,  whether  it  be  sunset  gold,  or  meadow 
green,  or  morning  purple. 

There  is  the  heart's  great  Italy,  frescoed  with  Transfig 
urations  more  glorious  than  Raphael's  "  holier  Christs  and 
veiled  Madonnas,"  and  beyond  Reason's  snowy  Alps,  where 
cold  truths  hang  like  icicles.  In  the  distance  towers  the 
t great  Mont  Blanc  of  the  soul,  the  savage  and  inaccessible 
Future,  with  its  crags  of  ice  and  granite,  along  whose  over 
hanging  cliffs  you  can  place  one  hand  on  perpetual  immeas 
urable  masses  of  great  glacier  griefs,  and  with  the  other 
pluck  joy's  sweet  violets  and  resignation's  beautiful  rhodo 
dendron,  the  rose  of  the  heart's  Alps.  You  can  look  down  on 
yesterday's  ice-slides,  and  off  at  to-morrow's  avalanchian 
scars  and  abysses,  or  turn  and  gaze  far  away  into  the  tropi 
cal  clime  of  soul,  its  beautiful  conservatories,  with  sunny 
beds  and  fragrant  borders  of  tube-roses  and  heliotropes,  ja- 
ponicas  and  orange  blossoms,  while  Poesie  sits  weaving  them 
like  pearls  in  her  coronet  of  song,  round  the  oriole  windows 
fadeless  morning-glories  twine,  and  at  midnight's  darkest 
hour  faith's  night-blooming  Cereus  unfolds  her  snowy  petals, 
filling  the  air  with  her  peerless  perfume. 

In  tropic  clime  of  soul,  that  hidden  land 

Through  sorrow's  evening  late,  night-blowing  flowers  expand, 
In  trouble's  deepest  dark,  faith's  radiant  Cereus  glows 
With  Fortune's  orient  morn,  the  starry  petals  close. 

And  the  passion  flower,  "  grand  with  imperial  purple  and  rich 
with  ethereal  blue/'  blooms  with  its  crown  of  thorns — and 
hard  by  are  the  green  fields  of  contemplation,  where  hungry 


294  NEPENTHE. 

thoughts  feed  and  refresh  themselves,  and  patches  near  of 
cultured  soil,  where  little  growing  cares  and  duties  furnish 
daily  food  for  the  roving,  restless  soul ;  and  far  away  across 
the  meadow  of  will,  runs  laughing  along  among  the  sober 
trees  the  little  brook  of  impulse  where  wild  water  lilies 
grow  ;  and  yonder  is  a  square,  closely-trimmed  lawn  where 
no  stray  child  of  fancy  ever  plays,  and  Regret's  grim  sentries 
patrol  night  and  day,  and  keep  Hope's  frolicsome  children 
off  the  tempting  grass. 

There  is  the  Hall  of  Conscience,  his  register  office — where 
Truth  makes  his  impartial  affidavits,  and  Justice  records  all 
the  deeds  of  soul.  Just  in  front  of  the  Hall  of  Conscience  is 
the  fountain  of  tears,  almost  always  playing  with  its  wreaths 
of  drooping  spray ;  and  near,  half  hidden  by  dark  cypress 
and  bending  willow,  is  the  soul's  solitary  chapel,  and  in  its 
holiest  of  holies  sometimes  glows  the  radiant  Shekinah,  sure 
symbol  and  sacred  shadowing  of  presence  divine,  and  the 
oratorio  where 

Thoughts  like  kneeling  nuns  behind  the  grate  of  time, 
In  soul's  high  altar  sing,  the  office  pure,  sublime. 

There  Faith  chants  her  midnight  mass  for  the  repose  of  the 
unquiet  soul,  and  crowds  of  worshipping  feelings  bow  in 
meek,  mute  devotion,  or  rising  sing  their  united  Te  Deum, 
their  happy  Gloria  in  Excelsis,  and  in  the  distance,  tower 
ing  above  mountain  and  cloud,  rises  the  stately  dome  of  the 
soul's  Valhalla — palace  of  immortality,  with  pillars,  entabla 
tures  and  arches  gleaming  with  gold  and  glistening  with 
pearls.  In  its  lofty  royal  observatory  hang  chandeliers  of 
festooned  stars,  and  there  are  perfect  and  complete  quad 
rants  and  octants,  achromatic  and  reflective,  night  and  day 
telescopes,  where  without  agitation  and  disturbance  the  soul 
take?  her  glorious  observations,  her  unobstructed  views  of 
heaven  ;  while  in  Valhalla's  halls  calmly  repose  heroic 
thoughts,  which  once  nobly  fought  and  conquered  in  battles 
with  cruel  errors,  in  the  long  contests  of  ages ;  and  far  off 
along  the  shore  of  destiny  rolls  Emotion's  turbulent  Atlan 
tic,  and  yonder  roars  Passion's  great  Niagara,  while  at  in 
tervals  bursts  impetuously,  from  Doubt's  immense  volcanic 
chimneys,  dense  smoke,  lurid  flames,  and  overwhelming 
lava. 

Once  more,  as  the  canvas  unfolds,  you'll  sec  some  starry 


NEPENTHE.  295 

promontory  of  soul,  and  look  off  into  the  deeps  of  eternity 
behind,  into  the  deeps  of  eternity  beyond.  Pause  not  to 
gaze  at  speculative  meteoric  dream,  or  fathom  some  meta 
physical  mist,  lest  a  great,  full-orbed  truth  pass  the  disc  of 
the  soul,  unnoticed,  unmarked,  forever.  See  thoughts  twin 
kle  out  from  the  misty  via  lactea  of  ages,  and  uncounted  ne 
bulae  of  dim  fancies  flit  in  the  dim  ideal  beyond. 

As  we  gaze  through  the  stained  windows  of  our  cur 
tained  souls  into  the  depths  of  these  trooping  thoughts,  who 
shall  find  their  true  parallax  ?  Who  measure  the  soul's 
proud  perihelion  to  uncreated  light  ?  Who  conjecture 
its  farthest  aphelion,  its  immense  sweep  through  distant 
ages  1 

Look  for  a  clock  in  the  soul's  cathedral  tower  that  marks 
with  hieroglyphic  hand  where  truth  begins,  how  far  pro 
gresses,  and  where  ends.  Alas  !  the  hands  of  the  clock  will 
point  to  the  hour  of  midnight ;  it  has  not  yet  struck  one 
truth  sure,  clear  and  loud,  and  the  soul  mournfully  weeps  in 
sympathy  with  the  "  throbbing  stars,"  that  it  is  so  long,  that 
like  light  from  distant  stars,  truth's  radiant  rays  are  years 
coming  to  our  visible  horizon.  Climb  on  tiptoe  as  we  will, 
and  peer  through  eternity's  keyhole,  we  shall  only  approach, 
but  never  touch,  the  full-orbed  truth. 

Could  artist  find  mountain-peak  tall  enough  for  studio 
close  to  the  star-lit  skylight  above  and  there  alone, ' 

He  patient  kneels  to  art,  and  bathes  in  beauty's  fount, 
Till  face  to  face  he  talks  on  inspiration's  mount, 

there  achieve  this  chef  d'oauvre,  the  study  of  the  heart  from 
life,  he  might  victoriously  die,  his  name  written  in  starlight 
above  Michael  Angelo,  Correggio,  Raphael  or  Murillo,  his 
eagle  fame  nestling  forever  among  the  golden  clouds  of  art's 
highest  eyrie. 


296  NEPENTHE. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

ASTROGNOSIA. 

"  Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon ; 
May  glides  onward  into  June." 

NEPENTHE  STUAIIT  is  quite  busy  a  few  weeks  before  the 
wedding — not  in  trying  on  elegant  silks,  heavy  satins  and 
embroidered  muslins,  laces  and  flounces,  but  her  manuscript 
is  really  being  published  at  last.  Every  evening  she  looks 
over  several  pages  of  her  proof.  There  is  a  strange  excite 
ment  in  seeing  anything  of  hers  in  print.  She  never  knew 
how  it  would  sound  until  she  reads  it  aloud.  She  hides  it 
hurriedly  away  when  Frank  comes,  for  she  is  keeping  it  a 
precious  secret  from  him.  She  adds,  changes,  crosses  out, 
corrects  at  night,  and  in  the  morning  early  she  reviews  and 
reads  again,  for  by  seven  it  goes  to  the  stereotyper's. 

This  first  child  of  her  fancy  is  very  dear  to  her  ;  it  is  the 
creation  of  her  own  heart,  weeping  her  own  tears,  smiling 
her  own  smiles,  and  breathing  her  own  soul-life.  As  she 
thinks  of  it  with  real  affection,  and  dreads  the  cutting  steel 
of  sharp  criticism,  she  vainly  wishes  she  had  never  launched 
such  a  little,  inexperienced  bark  out  on  the  stormy,  capri 
cious  Atlantic  of  public  opinion,  in  whose  turbulent  depths 
hide  fearful  sharks  and  devouring  whales,  watching  for  prey. 
She  thinks  dolefully  of  many  a  poor  little  book  once  care 
fully  launched,  and  sailing  off  on  the  same  perilous  voyage, 
silent  forever,  through  some  sharp  critic's  sharpest  thrust  or 
heaviest  broadside. 

It  may  share  the  fate  of  many  a  light  novel-craft,  gaily 
trimmed  and  fully  manned,  floating  down,  and  lost  in  the 
great  Gulf  Stream  of  Oblivion.  But  these  reflections  are 
too  late  now.  Such  clouds  of  fearful  maybes  always  darken 
the  sky,  when  our  little  hope-crafts  sail  silently  away  from 
our  watching  sight. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  thought  Nepenthe,   "  to  put  pussy  back 


NEPENTHE.  297 

in  the  bag.  There's  no  tying  her  up  tight  now,  to  smother  or 
drown  her." 

Once  plumed  her  airy  wing,  if  she  find  no  green  leaf  of 
sympathy,  the  dove  of  fancy  can  return  no  more  to  the  shel 
tering  ark  of  her  native  heart.  The  world,  with  its  opera 
glass  always  in  its  hand,  is  a  poor  home  for  a  new  book  ;  and 
a  freshman  author  must  be  fagged  and  drilled,  and  held 
under  the  pump  of  criticism,  to  have  cold  water  poured  on 
his  breathing  thoughts  and  burning  words,  by  those  wise 
sophomores  who  have  had  their  eye-teeth  cut  long  ago  by 
some  similar  cooling  and  refreshing  process ;  and  thus  they 
pay  back  the  grudges  of  their  novitiate. 

But  if  Frank  should  read  the  book  and  like  it,  she  will 
preserve  her  spiritual  equanimity  whatsoever  blast  the  uncer 
tain  trumpet  of  fame  may  blow  in  her  startled  ears. 

But  at  last,  as  she  rolls  up  the  sheets  of  her  proof,  and 
sends  them  away,  she  forgets  for  the  time  her  little  book — 
for  the  years  of  her  lonely  life  have  rolled  away,  and  new, 
bright  pages  are  unfolding  in  her  history.  It  is  the  eve  of 
her  bridal.  She  reads  over  and  over  again  in  her  happy 
heart,  the  beautiful  dedication  of  her  own  life  to  her  artist 
lover,  as  it  is  firmly  bound  and  brightly  clasped  with  his  en 
during  affection. 

Under  the  cover  of  his  strong  protection,  she  reads  in  fan 
cy,  in  new  letters,  her  new  name,  in  the  press  of  Time, 
waiting  to  be  stamped  with  the  signet  ring  and  sealing  kiss, 
'  Nepenthe  Carleyn.' 

The  two  volumes  of  their  single  lives  will  to-morrow  be 
bound  together.  Not  to  be  Volume  first  and  Volume  sec 
ond,  but  ONE  pleasant  biography,  illustrated  with  such  beau 
tiful  engravings  as  love  only  carves. 

"  God  grant,"  said  Nepenthe  fervently,  "  that  each  daily 
life-chapter  may  be  begun  with  some  sweet  strain  of  melody 
and  closed  with  some  dewy  benediction,  that  when  on  the 
last  page  of  this  precious  Biography  shall  be  written 

'  FINIS,' 

we  may  sit  down  together  on  the  banks  of  the  river  of  the 
water  of  life,  and  review  with  pure  pleasure  the  truthful, 
happy,  and  elevated  pages  of  our  short  history — stereotyped 
in  its  eternal  plates." 

She  stood  by  the  window  at  nightfall,  and  looked  out  on 
God's  great  starlit  roof,  the  only  roof  which  had  sheltered 


298  NEPENTHE. 

her  when  there  was  no  spot  in  the  wide  world  where  she 
could  repose  securely  at  nightfall,  sure  of  a  home  and  shel 
ter  for  the  morrow. 

Watched  ceaselessly  by  no  earthly  eyes  through  all  the 
changes  of  her  tearful  childhood  and  lonely  maidenhood,  she 
had  ever  been  like  a  waif — sometimes  at  rest,  then  drifting 
out  alone  on  life's  stormy  tide.  She  looked  out  with  brim 
ming  eyes  upon  the  ever  watchful,  constant  stars,  which 
shone  long  ago  in  the  old  windows  at  home — those  dear, 
faithful  watchers  were  watching  still.  The  only  influences 
which  had  followed  her  through  life  were  the  "  sweet  influ 
ences  of  the  Pleiades."  The  only  bands  which  had  linked 
her  fragmentary  life  together,  were  "  the  golden  bands  of 
Orion,"  the  never  failing  light  on  her  hidden  path,  the  gen 
tle  light  of  stars. 

Her  faith  had  looked  up  more  than  those  who  have  earth 
ly  loves  and  guides  clinging  ever  around  them. 

On  this  eve  of  her  bridal,  the  whole  sky  seemed  giving  a 
grand  joyful  illumination,  chanting  one  radiant  bridal  march 
on  its  reachless  range. 

"  Where  every  jewelled  planet  sings 
Its  clear  eternal  song 
Over  the  path  our  friends  have  gone." 

She  knew  nothing  of  dactyl  or  spondee,  metre  or  measure. 
Without  measuring  or  scanning  from  the  De  Profundis  of 
her  full  heart  welled  out  these  lines. 

There  was  a  mingling  of  sadness  in  the  strain,  for  no 
woman  with  a  soul  can  launch  out  on  an  unknown  sea,  even 
with  a  chosen  guide,  without  a  deep  strange  sadness,  almost 
a  fear,  to  link  her  life  and  trust  freely  and  forever  with  an 
other's. 

ASTROGNOSIA. 

Strange,  quiet,  patient  stars,  ye've  looked  down  on  life's  ill. 
Through  all  the  wrongs  beneath,  and  kept  your  counsel  still ; 
Clear-eyed  and  bright,  through  nightly  deeps  patrol 
Hiding  your  thoughts  profound  from  human  soul. 

On  in  your  calling  bright,  your  mark  is  ever  high, 
Nothing  shall  cross  your  tramp,  ye  sentry  of  the  sky  ; 
Tempest  nor  storm  nor  cloud  shall  check  your  stately  beat, 
Faithful  each  lonely  hour  your  tireless  bivouac  keep, 


NEPENTHE.  299 

Found  ye  in  arsenal  divine,  in  ages  long  agone. 

Your  evening  chant,  your  nightly  beat,  your  burnished  armor  worn  ? 

From  living  crystal  river,  hard  by  the  Eternal  throne, 

Kindled  your  deathless  naming  to  light  the  ages  on ; 

For  joy  at  earth's  creation  waved  you  those  torches  high, 

And  formed  that  glad  procession  to  cheer  the  gloomy  sky  ? 

Your  lanterns  o'er  the  restless  waves  of  stormy  life, 
Show  many  a  far-out  ledge,  on  sorrow's  surging  sea, 
Your  quenchless  lights  burn  steadfast  through  the  dark, 
To  guide,  from  traitor  rocks,  some  spirit's  way-worn  bark. 

When  trouble's  icebergs,  cold  and  grand, 
Before  dismantled  spirits  stand 
Ye  Pharoi  of  the  fatherland, 
Light  safe  along  grim  peril's  strand. 

Most  blinded  by  the  mist  of  fears,  exiled  on  isle  of  time, 
Through  gathering  showers  of  falling  tears,  we  see  but  faintly  siine, 
These  chandeliers  in  hall  of  Heaven,  with  starry  festoons  hung, 
That  guide  o'er  sapphire  threshold,  the  spirit  homesick  long. 

Within  its  curtained  chamber  my  soul  lies  folded  round  ; 

No  coming  comfort's  footstep  doth  cross  its  threshold  bound  ; 

Down  to  the  tented  spirit  like  angel  from  afar, 

Steals  through  the  misty  twilight  some  watching,  radiant  star ; 

And  shines  through  falling  tear-drops  till  sorrow's  stone  hath  rolled 

And  through  the  open  peace-door  flit  wings  of  sunset  gold  i 

The  spirit  sheds  its  grave  clothes  and  walks  again  in  life, 

Serene  as  star  ascended,  looks  down  on  mortal  strife. 

Come  forth,  each  shrouded  spirit !  all  wrapped  in  mournful  gloom, 

In  rocky  cares  and  sorrows  ye  have  a  prison  hewn  ; 

In  caverned  wealth  it  hideth,  and  buried  darkly  lies ; 

It  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth ;  it  surely  will  arise. 

Look  up  !  the  stars  are  shining  in  yonder  quiet  skies, 

From  convent  of  St.  Ego  your  monkish  spirit  hiea. 

Along  the  roof  of  nature,  above  old  science's  floor, 
Our  loftiest  hopes  like  giants  walk,  as  through  enchanted  door, 
Ascend  the  tower  eternal ;  where  starry  bells  shall  chime, 
When  on  a  world  expiring  shall  fall  the  dirge  of  time. 


300  NEPENTHE. 

Has  failed,  forever  failed,  all  mortal  rhyme, 
To  count  the  changes  of  a  starry  chime ; 
Nor  speech,  nor  language  e'er  was  found 
To  translate  pure  such  liquid  sound 

This  bright  vignette  on  nature's  page, 
Revered  in  verse  through  every  age, 
Eloctrotyped  by  Triune  hand, 
With  hidden  plates  in  silent  land. 

These  lovely  thoughts  in  nature's  broast, 
Have  ne'er  a  mortal  volume  blessed  ; 
Too  bright  for  poetry,  too  beautiful  for  song, 
All  the  ideals  fail,  to  paint  the  starry  throng. 

Art  veils  her  face  and  kneels  in  reverent  tears, 
While  puzzled  science,  knitting  up  the  sleeve  of  years, 
Drops  all  her  stitches  as  ehe  counts  again ; 
Sets  up  her  decades,  tries  in  vain, 
With  tangled  speculations,  baffled  tries, 
To  ravel  the  long  mystery  of  skies. 

Like  sentinels  at  intervals  ye  stand 
Along  the  borders  of  that  frontier  land, 
Where  finite  ends,  and  infinite  is  spanned, 
And  ever  engineering  on  your  golden  track, 
Fresh  light  on  mortal  path  ye're  sending  back. 


Dear  face  of  friendly  star !  you  only  smile  good-night ; 

Mid  breaking  hearthstone  links  and  waning  household  light; 

When  loved  ones  tell  us  long  and  last  adieu, 

Your  au  revoir  you  whisper  kind  and  true  ; 

Low  through  our  lattice  in  some  foreign  clime, 

Sing  soft  voices,  auld  lang  syne. 


Bright  beads  on  strings  of  ages,  the  rosary  of  time, 
Guarded  by  ancient  Sages,  as  amulet  sublime, 


NEPENTHE.  301 

As  on  each  virgin  star  they  gazed,  each  pure  and  radiant  face, 
Rehearsing  Pater  Noster  lines,  perfection,  beauty,  grace  ; 
"Who  counts  the  starry  chaplet,  where'er  on  earth  he  be, 
Must  offer  from  his  kneeling  heart  his  Gloria  Patri. 


And  we,  another  prayer  send  up,  unto  the  Spirit,  Son, 
That  we,  like  stars  in  duty's  path,  may  shine  unfailing  on ; 
And  toiling  up  earth's  cloudy  heights  may  to  our  zenith  rise, 
And  find  our  true  celestial  point,  above  in  paradise  ; 
Trace  back  our  longitude  from  earth,  on  Joy's  meridian  high, 
Counting  degress  of  happiness  along  the  radiant  sky. 

Oh!  could  the  starry  ladder  our  yearning  spirits  climb, 
And  reach  the  topmost  skylight  where  lamps  eternal  shine ; 
In  yonder  great  Valhalla  put  on  our  starry  crown, 
And  join  the  bright  procession  that  moves  the  ages  on. 

There  come  at  times  such  longings  to  be  what  we  are  not, 
We  wish  with  sad  despondings  we  had  some  brighter  lot ; 
Like  thee,  oh  star  unchanging,  our  loftiest  endeavor, 
Seems  ever  onward  moving,  yet  standing  still  forever. 

'Twill  not  be  slumbering  long ;  in  wider  range 
There'll  be  a  waking  soon ;  we  all  shall  change  ; 
These  mantling  folds  of  care  shall  backward  roll, 
Till  beckoning  stars  call  up  to  longing's  goal. 

We'll  greet  again  bright  stars  when  earth's  dark  nights  are  o'er, 
And  dawns  the  spirit's  higher  life  on  the  immortal  shore  ; 
Then  morning  stars  shall  sing  once  more,  and  shout  for  joy  again, 
As  whiteclad  souls  through  pearly  gates  pass  up  the  golden  plain. 


302  NEPENTHE. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

MR.    JOHN    PRIDEFIT    GOES    TO    THE    WEDDI  NG. 

"  We  sit  together,  with  the  skies, 

The  steadfast  skies  above  us ; 

We  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 

And  how  long^will  you  love  us  ? 
The  eyes  grow  dim  with  prophecy, 

The  voices  low  and  breathless, 
Till  death  us  part !     0  words,  to  be 
Our  best  for  Love  the  deathless." 

"  How  many  bridesmaids  ?  What  did  the  bride  have  on  ? 
How  did  she  appear  ?  How  long  was  her  trail  ?  What  did 
the  bridesmaids  wear  ?  Was  she  married  with  a  ring  ? 
How  many  were  at  the  reception  ?  How  many  ushers  were 
there  ?"  All  these  questions  asked  Mrs.  John  Pridefit  of 
her  husband  when  he  came  home  one  evening,  and  told  her 
he  had  stepped  into  Trinity  Church  and  seen  the  artist 
Frank  Carleyn,  who  took  her  uncle's  portrait,  married. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  home  for  me,  John  ?"  said  his 
disappointed  wife.  "  I  wanted  to  see  the  dresses  so  much. 
I  like  to  know  what  people  wear,  and  at  such  a  time  people 
look  as  well  as  they  can." 

"  Because,"  said  her  husband  gravely,  "  I  only  heard  of 
it  ten  minutes  beforehand,  and  I  knew  you  couldn't  dress  in 
ten  minutes." 

"  Did  you  go  in  that  rig  ?"  said  she,  looking  at  him  with  a 
dismayed  expression. 

"  Certainly.  I  went  with  the  dust  of  the  desk  on  my  coat 
sleeves.  I  have  been  in  court  nearly  all  day.  Nobody 
looked  at  me,  they  all  looked  at  the  bride." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit,  in  a  more  good-humored  tone, 
"  What  did  the  bride  have  on  ? — you  haven't  told  me  }et." 

"  She  had  on  something  white,  I  believe — something 
white." 

"  What  is  the  reason,  John,"  said  his  wife  provoked, 
"  you  can  never  tell  what  a  lady  has  on  ?" 


NEPENTHE.  303 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Pridefit,  apologetically,  "  every 
thing  is  ashes  of  roses  now.  If  her  dress  was  ashes  of  roses, 
it  must  have  been  the  ashes  of  white  roses  ;  for  I  am  sure 
it  was  something  white.  Almost  any  lady  looks  well  in  full 
bridal  costume.  Her  charms  are  heightened,  or  defects 
softened,  by  attractive  and  airy  dress  ;  but  the  poor  bride 
grooms  stand  upon  their  own  merits — they  look  about  as  Grod 
made  them — no  veil  to  adorn,  no  illusion  before  and  behind 
and  around.  But  this  groom  needed  no  help  to  make  him 
look  handsome — he  is  a  fine-looking  fellow,  and  the  bride's 
face  was  like  the  face  of  an  angel." 

"  Well,  how  many  bridesmaids  were  there  ?" 

"  I  can't  say.  I  know  there  was  one.,  and  something  white 
too  she  had  on ;  but  I  must  tell  you  something.  We  had 
cards  two  weeks  ago  to  this  reception.  I  was  at  home  when 
they  came,  and  to  tell  the  truth,  I  lost  six  hundred  dollars 
that  day,  so  I  forgot  all  about  the  reception  cards." 

Mr.  Pridefit  saw  his  wife  looked  more  disappointed  about 
the  reception  than  the  money,  so  he  added  in  a  husky  voice, 
"To-day  is  the  fourth  anniversary  of  the  death  of  our  only 
child.  0  Eliza,  Eliza  !  Life  has  been  tame  to  me  since 
that ;" — and  so  it  had.  Under  his  pillow,  night  after  night, 
had  that  little  daguerreotype  been  hidden — the  little  lips 
kissed  again  and  again  ;  for  never  had  John  Pridefit  loved 
any  living  thing  as  he  loved  that  little,  laughing,  open- 
hearted,  affectionate  child,  and  she  only  three  years  ago  was 
drowned  in  a  cistern,  not  far  from  her  father's  country 
residence. 

But  Mrs.  Pridefit  was  Mrs.  Pridefit  still.  Her  heart  still 
clung  to  "  pomps  and  vanities  ;"  she  regretted  even  now  she 
could  not  wear  her  light  blue  moire  antique  at  the  artist's 
reception. 

Little  did  she  know  that  the  artist's  bride  had  once  re 
ceived  so  cold  a  reception  from  her  hands  and  heart,  when 
taken  up  half  dead  from  that  cistern,  only  ten  years  ago. 

"  Who  gave  away  the  bride  1"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit. 

"  When  the  clergyman  said  in  his  clear  voice,  '  Who  giv- 
eth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man,'  a  fine-looking 
gentleman  came  out  from  the  crowd,  and  gave  her  away. 
They  say  his  name  is  Selwyn — he  is  a  great  friend  of  Car- 
leyn's.  The  bride,  I  think,  has  no  living  relative,  so  this 
gentleman  gave  her  away." 


304  NEPENTHE. 

11  That  was  strange,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit.  "  Were  there 
no  relatives  standing  up  with  them  ?  And  where  does  this 
Selwyn  live  ?  Is  he  a  stranger  here  ?  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
my  neuralgia  I  would  have  found  out  myself." 

"  He  has  boarded  some  time  at  Mrs.  Edwards',  and  is  a 
particular  friend  of  Carleyn's.  That's  all  I  know  about  it," 
said  Mr.  Pridefit. 

"  You  never  can  get  any  news  out  of  a  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Pridefit.  But  the  next  day  she  called  on  Charity  Gouge, 
and  she  learned  that  some  unknown  friend  had  furnished 
the  bride's  trousseau,  and  sent  her  an  elegant  white  satin 
wedding  dress,  with  two  flounces  of  point  lace.  At  the  head 
of  the  flounces  was  a  wreath  of  tuberoses  and  geranium 
leaves.  With  the  dress  was  a  bridal  veil  of  point  lace  also. 
The  bride  was  said  to  be  portionless  ;  but  she  was  dressed 
as  richly  as  any  wealthy  bride,  and  her  husband  furnished 
nothing. 

Miss  Gouge  thought  there  was  some  mystery  about  it.  She 
had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  question  the  dressmaker,  but  she 
either  could  or  would  reveal  nothing,  only  that  Mr.  Selwyn 
ordered  the  carriage,  and  he  was  the  last  to  say  good-bye 
when  they  left  for  their  wedding  tour. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Pridefit,  "  when  the  bride  repeated 
the  words,  '  With  all  my  worldly  goods  I  thee  endow,'  Mr. 
Carleyn  must  have  felt  liberally  endowed.  I  was  married  in 
white  silk ;  I  have  always  been  very  sorry  that  I  wasn't 
married  in  white  satin." 

While  the  carriage  bore  Carleyn  and  his  wife  off  on  their 
pleasant  journey,  in  a  little  white-curtained  and  striped  car 
peted  room  in  Titusville,  sat  one  evening  a  rare  couple — 
Levi  Longman,  and  Prudence  Potter.  Levi  had  concluded 
to  buy  a  part  of  the  lot  belonging  to  Prudence,  so  he  came 
one  night  to  make  the  terms.  He  flavors  his  conversation 
with  common  sense,  sober  reason  and  cool  judgment,  as  he 
sits  in  his  high-backed  chair,  tipped  against  the  wall. 

When  business  matters  are  disposed  of,  in  her  laconic 
way,  Prudence  draws  up  her  chair  a  little  closer,  and  asks 
"  How  that  blind  doctor  in  the  city  recovered  his  sight?" 

In  his  wisest  manner,  and  most  deliberate  tone,  Levi  an 
swered,  "  All  the  efforts  of  surgery  and  medicine,  blisters, 
moxas,  nux  vomica,  belladonna  failed  in  his  case — and  then 
electricity  was  judiciously  applied.  I  can't  describe  the 


NEPENTHE.  305 

exact  process,  but  it  was  in  some  way  by  employing  elec 
tro-puncture,  directing  the  electric  aura  against  the  eyes, 
drawing  it  from  them  during  the  insulation  of  the  patient, 
taking  small  sparks  from  the  eye-lids,  or  integument  round 
the  orbits.  I  heard  the  doctors  talk  about  passing  down  fine 
needles  through  any  of  the  branches  of  the  frontal  and  supe 
rior  maxillary  nerves,  and  a  slightly  pricking  sensation,  in 
dicating  the  nerve  is  pierced,  a  galvanic  current  is  then 
passed  along  the  needles  through  the  branch  of  the  fifth 
nerve." 

Prudence  looked  puzzled,  as  if  she  didn't  know  any  better 
now  than  before  she  asked,  but  she  only  said,  looking  over 
her  spectacles  at  Levi,  as  she  stopped  her  knitting,  "  Don't 
that  beat  all  /" 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

THE    RETURN  — THE    SURPRISE. 

"  Oh  never  again,  while  thy  weal  is  my  care, 
The  dark  sinfu'  regions  o'  spaedom  I'll  dare. 
'Twere  vain  to  expect  thou  wilt  cost  us  nae  tears, 
In  our  toil-wearied  way  through  the  dim  hoped.for  years ; 
But  aye  we'll  see  in  thee,  as  sweet  and  as  dear 
The  Agnes  awa'  in  the  Agnes  that's  here." 

DAVID  WIWGATE. 

"I  have  ordered  the  carriage  to  stop  with  me  at  a  friend's 
house  on  the  way,"  said  Selwyn  to  Carleyn,  as  he  met  him 
and  his  bride  at  the  depot  on  their  return.  They  stopped 
before  the  door  of  the  most  elegant  house  in  that  vicinity. 
Carleyn  was  surprised,  yet  he  chose  to  gratify  Selwyn,  who 
looked  unusually  bright,  and  who  seemed  to  feel  perfectly 
at  home  as  he  went  with  them  into  the  large  parlor,  and 
asked  them  to  walk  into  the  little. library  out  of  the  parlor, 
for  there  they  would  find  the  owner  of  the  establishment. 

There  was  a  beautiful  portrait  of  a   lady    in  a  recess  on 
one  side  of  the  mantel,  a  lady  apparently  about  thirty-five — 
on  the  other  was  Carleyn's  ideal  Nepenthe,  and  as   Nepen 
the  stood  before  it,  her  face  radiant  with  the  dawn  of  hap 
piness,  the  resemblance  was  so  striking,  she  herself  could. 


see  it.  Now  that  her  face  wore  its  native  sunshine,  the 
picture  might  be  taken  for  her  portrait. 

There  was  also  a  striking  resemblance  in  the  two  por 
traits. 

"  That  picture  on  the  left  side,"  said  Selwyn,  "  was  taken 
by  Carleyn  at  my  urgent  request,  a  few  months  before  your 
marriage.  It  was  taken  from  a  miniature  painted  on  ivory 
some  years  ago.  I  intended  it  as  a  present  for  you.  That 
vase  on  the  little  table  is  of  exquisite  workmanship,  and  was 
imported  by  me  some  years  since.  The  violets  in  it  came 
from  the  conservatory  belonging  to  the  owner  of  this  house. 
On  the  outside  of  the  vase  I  have  had  engraved  the  word 
Nepenthe  in  letters  of  gold." 

That  vase — that  vase  !  Nepenthe  held  her  hand  over  her 
eyes  and  thought.  She  had  seen  it  in  early  childhood  often 
filled  with  violets,  and  filled  by  her  mother's  hand.  It  was 
the  most  beautiful  thing  her  childish  eyes  had  ever  seen. 
The  past  began  to  dawn  upon  her  bewildered  mind.  That 
portrait !  it  seemed  almost  to  speak  as  she  gazed  upon  it. 

"  It  is  my  mother's  picture,"  said  she  at  last.  "  Oh  that 
those  lips  had  language  !  Life  has  passed  but  roughly  with 
me  since  I  saw  thee  last." 

Taking  her  arm  gently  within  her  own,  Mr.  Selwyn  drew 
her  before  the  mirror,  and  bade  her  look  up,  and  see  reflect 
ed  there  the  owner  of  that  elegant  house,  the  lady  who  had 
recently  come  into  possession  of  that  valuable  property. 

"  And  here  is  the  deed  of  the  property,  which  I  hand 
over  to  the  rightful  owner,"  said  he,  putting  a  paper  duly 
signed,  sealed  and  delivered  into  her  hand. 

As  Nepenthe  saw  him  bending  affectionately  over  her,  the 
truth  dawned  at  last  upon  her  mind.  She  clasped  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  exclaimed,  "  My  father  !  my  father!" 

Poor  tempest-tossed,  bereaved,  long  desolate  man,  he  held 
in  his  arms  at  last  his  Nepenthe.  Henceforth  he  could 
forget  much  sorrow  and  misfortune. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !  my  Nepenthe  !"  he  exclaimed. — 
'•  The  bitter  cup  long  drained  is  removed.  My  prayer  is 
heard.  My  Lina's  gentle  hand  hath  held  out  to  me  through 
all  this  darkness,  this  cup  of  joy  to  be  my  solace,  while  she 
quaffs  her  purer  Nepenthe  from  the  river  of  life." 


NEPENTHE.  307 


CHAPTER  XLH. 

MYSTE&Y   CLEARED   UP. 

"  If  in  our  daily  course  our  mind 
Be  set  to  hallow  all  we  find, 
New  treasures  still  of  countless  price 
God  will  provide  for  sacrifice 

"  Old  friends,  old  scenes  will  lovelier  be, 
As  more  of  heaven  in  each  we  see ; 
Some  softening  gleam  of  love  and  prayer 
Will  dawn  on  every  cross  and  care." 

"TELL  us  about  all  your  wanderings,  dear  father,"  said 
Nepenthe  the  next  morning  as  she  refilled  the  vase  with 
fresh  violets  from  her  own  conservatory. 

"  There  was  a  claim  of  twenty  thousand  dollars  due  me 
in  a  distant  city,"  said  Mr.  Stuart,  (for  he  likes  to  be  called 
by  his  last  name  now.)  "  I  heard  one  day  that  the  parties 
owing  me  were  intending  to  make  an  assignment  of  all  their 
property  to  certain  preferred  creditors.  I  sent  a  brief  note 
to  my  wife,  took  that  morni  ig's  express  train,  which  left  in 
half  an  hour,  hoping  by  seeing  the  parties  before  their  in 
tended  assignment,  to  induce  them  to  prefer  me,  and  liquid 
ate  my  claim  by  paying  in  whole  or  in  part.  The  note  nev 
er  reached  my  wife,  nor  did  any  succeeding  letters.  I  was 
informed  by  letter,  three  weeks  after  my  departure,  of  the 
death  and  burial  of  my  wife  and  child.  I  was  not  at  all  well 
that  day,  and  I  had  fallen  down  through  a  hatchway  the  day 
before.  The  severe  blow  caused  by  the  accident,  and  the 
fearful  news  conveyed  in  the  letter,  caused  an  illness  which 
terminated  in  brain  fever.  I  was  ill  a  long  time,  and  una 
ble  to  travel.  For  a  time  I  "lost  all  recollection  of  any  events 
happening  during  the  last  four  years. 

"  Of  course  my  physician  did  not  advise  me  to  visit  the 
scene  of  my  loss  with  my  feeble  health  and  unsettled  brain. 
After  some  months  of  medical  treatment  I  was  allowed  to 
travel,  and  visit  new  scenes,  if  possible  to  regain  my  men- 


308  NEPENTHE. 

tal  vigor  and  tone.  But  when  I  found  out  two  years  since, 
that  she  who  I  believed  had  died  so  soon  after  my  depar 
ture,  had  lived  and  struggled  on  for  years,  thinking  me 
faithless,  and  at  last  had  drooped  and  died  of  a  hroken  heart, 
my  strength  gave  way.  I  was  sorely  tempted.  My  reason 
seemed  shaken.  I  preached  no  more. 

"  I  could  not  even  bear  the  name  of  Professor  Henry, 
the  name  the  students  gave  me,  as  there  was  another  Stuart 
in  the  University  whom  they  called  Professor  John. 

"  I  walked  my  room  many  a  night,  and  wished  I  had  nev 
er  taken  that  fatal  journey.  I  have  been  the  victim  of  an 
almost  fiendish  revenge. 

"  A  woman  to  whom  I  was  engaged  when  a  very  young 
man,  and  whose  fearfully  violent  temper,  accidentally  dis 
covered,  caused  me  to  violate  my  contract,  has  persecuted 
me  and  mine  with  relentless  fury.  She  intercepted  all  my 
letters.  She  wrote  me,  under  an  assumed  name,  that  letter 
informing  me  of  the  death  of  my  wife  and  child,  when  both 
were  living  and  mourning  my  absence.  She  was  a  watcher 
at  my  wife's  death-bed,  a  nurse  at  the  hospital,  a  cook  at 
Dr.  Wendon's  ;  her  hand  cut  with  a  knife  the  rope  to  which 
the  pail  was  attached  when  you,  Nepenthe,  were  almost 
drowned.  Attired  as  a  man,  she  attempted  your  life  one 
evening — and  to  c.arry  out  her  subsequent  plans  and  mysti 
fy  her  movements,  she  assumed  the  name  of  Madam  Fu 
ture.  Having  a  large  telescope  in  the  top  of  her  house,  by 
turning  it  in  certain  directions  she  could  easily  see  the  move 
ments  in  many  of  the  houses  near. 

"  When  Carleyn's  windows  were  unshaded  or  unshuttered 
she  could  plainly  see  his  face  and  features,  and  tell  what  he 
was  about. 

"  The  telescope  itself  was  so  concealed  that  Florence  El 
liott  really  thought  it  some  magic  glass.  She  whispered  in 
Carleyn's  ear  many  false  statements  concerning  you,  and 
your  unknown  father  and  dead  mother — but  she  herself  is 
dead  now,  and  we  will  try  and  forget  the  irretrievable 
wrong  she  has  done. 

"  One  night  I  shall  never  forget.  I  had  done  some  great 
service  to  a  stranger.  I  came  home  in  a  calmer  frame  than 
usual,  resolved  to  do  my  duty,  and  try  and  banish  useless 
recollections.  I  found  on  my  table  a  sealed  note  with  these 
words — '  Your  wife  did  not  die  soon  after  you  left,  but  lin- 


NEPENTHE.  309 

gered  lonely  years  after,  watching  and  waiting  for  your  re- 
tarn,  and  died  at  last  of  a  broken  heart,  believing  you  faith 
less.  Your  child  is  not  dead,  but  is  a  homeless  wanderer  in 
the  wide  world,  while  you  are  enjoying  wealth  which  can  do 
you  no  good.' 

"  I  read  this  cruel  letter,  and  as  I  thought  how  her  sensi 
tive  nature  lingered  out  years  of  agony,  I  walked  back  and 
forth,  almost  maddened  with  grief.  It  seemed  that  my  heart 
must  break.  I  moaned,  I  sobbed,  I  wept,  I  shrieked.  Sud 
denly  I  felt  something  give  way  within,  as  if  my  heart  itself 
had  burst.  I  put  my  hand  on  my  heart — I  could  feel  no 
motion — for  years  I  felt  none.  I  asked  a  physician's  opin 
ion.  He  said  there  was  a  sudden  obstruction,  and  that  any 
great  excitement  might  cause  insanity  or  death.  He  ad 
vised  me  to  keep  calm  and  quiet — so  I  preached  no  more. 
It  would  have  been  hard  for  me,  with  my  wan  face  and  worn 
heart,  to  bind  up  the  broken-hearted,  and  preach  deliverance 
to  the  captive  ;  to  inspire  faith  and  hope  in  desponding  souls. 
So  not  caring  whither  I  went,  I  travelled  on.  I  spent  two 
months  in  the  northern  part  of  Texas,  travelling  sometimes 
on  horseback,  sometimes  on  foot,  often  sleeping  at  night 
upon  the  prairies  and  in  the  groves.  When  the  sky  was 
clear  and  cloudless,  I  wandered  about  in  search  for  water, 
cutting  and  breaking  the  limbs  of  trees,  making  a  big  fire  by 
a  fallen  tree  for  a  back  log,  baking  and  eating  some  corn 
bread,  and  boiling  water  for  tea.  After  supper,  we — for 
there  were  three  companions  with  me — lay  down  on  some 
blankets  spread  on  the  grouud,  with  our  travelling  bags  for 
our  pillows,  and  with  gentle  zephyrs,  wreaths  of  curling 
smoke,  and  flickering  shadows  dancing  about  us,  we  were 
lulled  into  quiet  slumbers  in  spite  of  the  owl's  dismal  music, 
barking  of  foxes,  and  howling  of  wolves,  and  all  but  myself 
awoke  in  the  morning,  Refreshed  and  invigorated.  But  no 
sky  seemed  to  me  bright,  no  air  balmy. 

"  In  the  sky  of  the  soul,  each  cluster  of  blessings  has  its 
lost  Pleiad,  and  you  may  count  over  your  circle  of  loved 
ones,  yet  that  one  who  is  not,  you  cannot  forget.  Many  a 
life-picture  has  its  dark  back-ground  of  clouds,  of  doubts, 
and  of  mysteries." 

Mr.  Stuart  paused — and  taking  from  his  pocket  a  little 
package,  opened  an  old  yellow-looking  partly  torn  letter. 

"  This,"  said  he,  with  much  emotion,  "  is  the  last  page  of 


310  NEPENTHE. 

a  letter  written  by  my  wife  only  one  week  before  she  died. 
I  can  see  the  traces  of  tears  in  nearly  every  line,  but  the 
style  is  hers,  the  handwriting  hers,  though  evidently  writ 
ten  with  faltering  pen  and  trembling  hand."  Mr.  Stuart 
reads  : 

"  It  is  always  November  in  the  heart  where  such  a  mys 
tery  broods.  The  dead  leaves  are  always  falling,  and  the 
shrieking  winds  are  never  weary.  O,  could  we  close  gen 
tly  the  eyes  of  loved  ones,  and  lay  them  tenderly  away, 
safely  cloistered  with  the  Great  Father  above — but  not  to 
know  when  or  how  or  where  they  are  gone,  to  watch  at  morn 
and  evening  for  their  coming,  and  yet  they  come  not,  tosses 
the  moaning  soul  on  the  billows  of  unrest,  haunts  the  worn 
spirit  like  a  sleepless  ghost,  watching  and  wailing  at  every 
turn  to  beckon  and  torture  and  scare  the  desolate  soul. 
These  fearful  minute  guns  on  the  wide  sea  of  thought, 
through  the  long  lonely  night  boom  and  echo  off  the  cold 
shore  of  regret." 

Mr.  Stuart  folded  the  letter,  and  said,  in  a  low,  sad  tone  : 
"  Poor  Lina !  she  hardly  suffered  more  than  I.  Many  a 
night  for  years  I  have  called  out  in  agony,  as  in  a  night 
mare  sleep,  My  child  !  my  child  !  where  is  my  child  ? 

"  None  have  known  my  sorrow.  I  tried  to  outgrow  sor 
row,  but  some  sorrow  shadows  lengthen  as  life's  sun  goes 
down — they  grow  taller  and  darker,  till  no  stretching  the 
drapery  of  oblivion,  no  lengthening  the  mantle  of  forgetful- 
ness,  can  hide  their  skeleton  limbs  or  heavy  feet.  Some 
lost  joys,  like  lost  friends,  may  be  first  earth-covered,  then 
grass-grown  ;  but  there  are- troubles  that  walk  the  desolate 
shades  of  the  heart  like  unappeased  ghosts,  ever  and  anon 
muttering  and  staring  through  memory's  halt-open  shutters, 
while  the  words  of  remorse  howl  dismally  around. 

"  You,  Nepenthe,  my  child,  are  as  fresh  and  beautiful  a 
gift,  as  if  some  Peri  had  lain  you  at  my  feet.  You  are  the 
one  bright  pearl  cast  up  on  the  shore  of  my  wrecked  life. 
Could  sea-bird  have  wept  out  bright  pearls  in  the  hollow 
wreathed  chamber  of  the  deep,  surely  this  pearl  of  my  heart 
was  wept  into  beauty  in  the  hollow-wreathed  chamber  of 
sorrow. 

"  The  outer  surface  of  society  is  clear,  serene  and  sun 
ny,  With  swelling  sails  and  airy  pennons,  how  gracefully 
it  floats  along  the  conventional  tide  ;  but  away  down  in  its 


NEPENTHE.  311 

heart  are  under-currents,  strong,  rapid  and  powerful — 
there's  no  plateau  laid  along  the  depths  of  the  heart  where 
any  joy  cable,  let  down  ever  so  deep,  may  lie  long  unbro 
ken. 

"  So  we  braid  the  cable  of  our  hopes,  and  have  our  great 
festal  days  over  some  new  line  of  joy  in  the  stream  of  life. 

"  Gay  processions  of  sanguine  thoughts,  with  bright  ban 
ners  and  showy  badges,  and  noisy  huzzas,  go  inarching  up 
and  down  our  applauding  hearts.  We  pay  out  our  joys  off 
the  bark  of  hope,  and  wait  day  after  day  for  signals  and  re 
sponses.  But  there  are  no  returns  ;  there's  a  break  some 
where,  there  come  only  a  few  faint  signals,  and  the  bell  of 
the  heart  tolls  out  the  day  of  failure. 

"  No  mortal  diver  can  fathom  the  depths  of  the  heart ;  no 
plateau  exists  in  the  tide  of  human  passion  where  any  joy 
cable  can  be  laid  in  a  chain  unbroken.  Some  voice  whis 
pers,  it  may  succeed  after  all,  and  away  up  in  the  tower  of 
humanity  rings  out  another  glad  chime.  Hope  says  we've 
found  the  error,  and  will  correct  it.  But  no  ;  not  till  the 
whole  life  is  taken  up  and  laid  over.  So  in  the  bottom  of 
all  our  hearts  lie  buried  many  useless  joy  cables. 

"  You,  Nepenthe,  were  entitled  to  property  in  England — 
property  coming  to  your  mother.  We  were  married  in  En 
gland,  but  I  had  no  marriage  certificate.  The  clergyman 
who  mairied  us  was  a  careless,  dissipated  man,  and  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  our  marriage  certificate  in  existence  ; 
and  I  found  it  impossible  to  get  the  property,  as  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  would  not  present  my  petition  to  the  Queen. 
I  walked  up  and  down  in  despair,  and  gave  up  the  hope  of 
securing  your  rightful  inheritance. 

"  But  one  day,  as  I  came  out  of  the  Horse  Guards  into 
Charing  Cross,  I  met  the  Colonial  Secretary,  who  had  just 
returned  from  Bermuda,  and  told  him  my  trouble.  '  I 
granted  the  marriage  license,  and  will  set  matters  right,' 
said  he.  Was  it  not  strange  that  he,  the  only  man  in  the 
world  who  could  have  helped  me  in  the  matter,  should  ar 
rive  that  day  in  England,  and  meet  me,  just  as  I  was  mak 
ing  up  my  mind  to  return  to  America  without  securing  the 
property  ? 

"  I  have  secured  to  you  a  fortune  in  your  own  right.  This 
was  the  object  of  my  recent  visit  to  England.  I  meant  that 


312  NEPENTHE. 

Carleyn  should  marry  you  without  fortune — for  yourself — 
and  so  I  have  kept  until  now  the  deed  in  my  own  hands." 

Mr.  Selwyn  went  out  as  he  said  this,  and  did  not  return 
until  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  when  he  came  back  he  look 
ed  very  sad  as  he  said, 

"  I  was  just  called  to  see  a  beautiful  young  creature  die, 
in  great  agony,  of  over-doses  of  arsenic,  the  most  distressing 
and  fatal  of  all  mineral  poison.  With  its  rapid  inflammation, 
intense  thirst,  it  executed  its  deadly  purpose  with  alarming 
rapidity,  though  the  most  counteracting  remedies  were 
promptly  resorted  to.  She  was  ill,  and  at  first  did  not  at 
tribute  the  illness  to  the  right  cause  till  too  late. 

"  The  mineral  had  inserted  itself  by  corrosion  beneath 
the  mucous  coat  of  the  stomach  before  any  remedy  could 
be  employed.  Whites  of  eggs  mixed  with  hydrated  perox 
ide  of  vinegar  were  administered,  followed  by  powerful  and 
long  continued  emetics.  Every  thing  was  tried,  but  all 
failed. 

"  She  had  heightened  her  beauty,  but  she  had  rashly 
increased  the  fatal  dose,  and  rumor  says  that  she  loved  to 
passionate  idolatry  your  husband,  the  distinguished  artist — 
and  to  captivate  him  she  so  heightened  her  natural  charms 
by  this  dangerous  practice. 

"  She  was  dressed  for  some  party  when  she  was  taken 
so  violently  ill,  and  she  is  to  be  buried  in  the  same  dress. 
She  must  have  been  brilliantly  beautiful.  I  don't  wonder  as 
she  entered  the  church  on  Sabbath  mornings,  people  turned 
back  to  gaze  at  her." 

Poor  Mrs.  Klliott,  heart-broken  and  desolate,  woe-begone 
and  horror-stricken,  sat  alone  by  her  unburied  dead  those 
two  long,  lonely  days  and  nights,  her  soul  clad  in  penitential 
sackcloth,  and  sitting  among  the  ashes  of  dead  hopes.  She 
had  given  up  principle,  conscience,  every  thing,  for  this 
lost  idol. 

The  main  wish  of  her  heart  had  been  the  crowning  of  this 
beautiful  child  queen  of  the  heart  and  home  of  some  distin 
guished,  gifted  man.  Until  the  last,  she  had  hoped  to  write 
her  name  in  that  golden-clasped  Bible,  Florence  Carleyn. 

Never  had  she  looked  so  radiantly  beautiful  as  on  that 
fearful  night  when  came  that  sudden,  terrible  agony. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  heart-broken  mother,  "  the  cup  of  bitter- 


NEPENTHE.  313 

ness  I  have  pressed  so  long  to  other  lips,  I   must   drain   to 
the  dregs. 

"  If  I  had  spent  those  precious  hours  I  wasted  in  makinw 
her  beautiful  and  accomplished,  in  the  culture  and  ennobling 
of  her  immortal  soul,  I  would  not  now  mourn  the  death  of 
my  erring  child.  I  shall  go  to  her,  but  she  will  never  re 
turn  to  me.  0  Florence  !  my  child  !  my  child  !  would  God 
I  had  died  for  thee  !" 

For  days  the  stricken  mother  wailed  and  shrieked  and 
sobbed  and  mourned,  yet  shed  no  tears  ;  and  months  after, 
if  you  passed  through  the  Asylum  at  Utica,  you  might  some 
times  see  a  still  beautiful  woman  looking  out  of  the  window, 
watching  and  waiting  for  Florence  ;  sometimes  quietly 
wreathing  flowers  for  her  hair,  saying  she  would  come 
soon,  and  then  crushing  them,  and  raving  so  wildly  that  all 
shrank  from  her  in  terror.  It  was  one  of  those  hopeless 
cases  of  insanity  that  sometimes  linger  for  years,  with  no 
improvement,  no  relief,  no  change  but  death. 

She  never  seemed  sane,  but  sometimes  would  sit  gazing 
abstractedly  in  the  distance,  and  repeating  over  the  words, 
"  Withhold  not  any  good  from  him  to  whom  it  is  due,  when 
it  is  in  the  power  of  thine  hand  to  do  it."  It  was  the  only 
connected,  coherent,  rational  sentence  she  ever  uttered  — 
That  one  memory  seemed  the  one  unbroken  chord  in  the 
quivering  lyre  of  her  jarred  and  discordant  soul. 

That  fortune  she  had  lavished  upon  Florence  belonged  of 
right  to  Nepenthe  Stuart.  How  and  when  it  came  into  her 
hands  was  a  secret  known  only  to  Madam  Future  and  John 
Trap. 

The  former  was  dead,  and  the  latter  was  too  deeply  im 
plicated  ever  to  reveal  anything  of  the  transaction.  Yet 
from  time  to  time,  with  no  clue  of  their  source,  came  sums 
of  money  to  Nepenthe  Carleyn,  until  all  Mrs.  Elliott  had 
ever  used  of  hers  was  paid.  This  arrangement  may  have 
been  made  by  Mrs.  Elliott  the  first  day  sue  sat  down  by  her 
dead  child,  while  remorse  was  keenest,  and  trembling  rea 
son  still  lingered  on  her  throne. 

I  have  often  thought  I  never  could  feel  sorry  for  John 
Trap,  but  I  couldn't  help  it  when  I  saw  him  the  other  morn 
ing.  He  could  not  stir  his  poor  useless  right  hand  and  foot. 
He  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis  about  a  year  ago,  affecting  the 
whole  right  side. 

14 


314  NEPENTHE. 

He  was  seized  with  it  when  he  was  foreclosing  a  mort 
gage,  and  he  hasn't  used  the  hand  since. 

I  thought  of  a  maimed  lion  as  I  looked  at  him  one  day  as 
he  sat  trying  to  do  up  a  package  of  letters  in  his  left  hand, 
muttering  over  to  himself  gloomily,  "  Withhold  not  any 
good  from  him  to  whom  it  is  due."  Somethiug  in  one  cor 
ner  of  the  old  newspaper  with  which  he  was  wrapping  up 
the  letters  attracted  his  attention. 

He  couldn't  get  up  unaided  and  reach  any  of  the  books  on 
the  crowded  shelves  near  him,  so  he  read  this  article  head 
ed  eleemosynary. 

The  article  closed  thus — "  If  thou  comest  to  the  evening 
of  life  and  art  old  or  infirm,  all  thy  consolation  will  be,  not 
how  much  money  hast  thou  made,  but  how  much  good  hast 
thou  done,  how  many  wrongs  righted  ?  This  is  all  the  cap 
ital  from  which  thou  canst  gain  interest  in  the  great  bank 
of  the  everlasting  Future." 

John  Trap  groaned  and  muttered  to  himself  again,  "With 
hold  not  good  from  him  to  whom  it  is  due  when  it  is  in  the 
power  of  thy  hand  to  do  it." 

He  looked  at  his  helpless  arm.  "  Poor  hand,"  said  he, 
"  has  lost  its  power  ;  the  right  hand  has  lost  its  cunning,  it 
can  do  no  more  harm." 

He  looked  up  at  his  wife's  portrait  on  the  wall.  "  My 
poor  Mary — she  is  rich  now,  and  I  am  a  poor  beggar  at  the 
gate  of  Eternity.  A  better  woman  never,  never  lived.  She 
tried  hard  enough  to  make  an  angel  of  me,  but  she  could 
not,  and  it  broke  her  heart,"  and  tears  long  stifled,  frozen 
tears,  welled  up  in  John  Trap's  eyes — "  too  late,  too  late," 
said  he,  moodily,  gloomily,  mournfully. 

Reader  !  I  was  at  G-reenwood  yesterday,  and  saw  a  monu 
ment  with  this  inscription,  "  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Mary, 
wife  of  John  Trap,. who  died  January  1st,  1861,  aged  2S 
years.  Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord."  Tf  I 
could  write  another  edition  of  Les  Miserables,  surpassing 
Victor  Hugo's,  even  more  tender,  truthful  and  touching, 
and  sell  a  million  of  copies,  in  the  quiet  Greenwood  of  its 
most  pleasant  thoughts  I  would  erect  the  noblest  monument 
to  Mary,  wife  of  John  Trap,  once  numbered  among  those 
the  world  calls  Lcs  Miserables,  but  now  the  angels  write  her 
name  among  Les  Heureux — the  blessed. 

If  among  the  domes  and  spires  of  the  celestial  city,  there 


NEPENTHE.  315 

rises  the  dome  of  Valhalla,  palace  of  immortality,  where 
repose  the  souls  of  warriors  slain  in  battle,  surely  Mary 
Trap's  heroic  soul  rests  there  with  a  martyr's  victor  crown, 
and  robed  in  radiant  white.  Alas  !  of  how  few  of  us  can 
the  angels  ever  write  Blessed,  until  we  enter  into  rest. 

Blessed  is  the  baptismal  word  with  which  the  angels 
crown  the  soul  as  it  comes  up  out  of  the  river  of  death,  and 
joins  the  white-robed  church.  "  Blessed  are  the  first  drops 
of  the  life  river  that  kiss  the  brow,  as  the  transfigured  soul 
puts  en  her  radiant  immortal. 

"  All  their  tears  are  wiped  away, 
All  darkness  turned  to  perfect  day  ; 
How  blessed  be  the  dead, 
How  beautiful  be  they." 


CHAPTER     XLIII. 

WHAT    THE   CRITICS    SAY. 

"  A  perfect  judge  will  read  each  work  of  wit, 
With  the  same  spirit  that  its  author  writ." — POPE. 

"  Who  shall  dispute  what  the  reviewers  say  ? 
Their  word's  sufficient ;  and  to  ask  a  reason 
In  such  a  case  as  theirs,  is  downright  treason." 

CHURCHILL. 

"  Beasts  of  all  kinds  their  fellows  spare ; 
Bear  lives  at  amity  with  bear." 

THERE  are  many  expensive  bridal  gifts  on  the  table  in 
Nepenthe's  room,  but  there's  one — the  last,  but  not  the 
least — on  which  her  eyes  will  often  rest.  It  is  a  little  blue- 
covered  book,  with  the  word  Dawn  printed  on  its  back.  And 
Frank  reads  it  aloud  one  evening.  As  he  closes  the  book, 
he  looks  up  to  Nepenthe  and  s&ys,  archly,  "  If  I  had  not 
fallen  in  love  with  you,  Nepenthe,  I  should  be  in  great  dan 
ger  of  being  captivated  with  the  writer  of  this  story.  My 
boyish  ideals  were  all  authoresses." 

"  And  mine  were  all  artists,"  said  Nepenthe,  laughing  ; 
"  but  you  can't  make  me  jealous,  Frank,"  she  added — and 
her  whole  face  glowed  with  pleasure. 

Mr.  Stuart  comes  in  the  next  Monday  morning  with  a  pa- 


316  fcEPENlHE. 

per  in  his  hand  and  a  very  knowing  look  on  his  face.  "  Ah, 
Frank,"  said  he,  "  you  wrote  this  review  ,  I  know  you  did." 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  Frank,  looking  at  Nepenthe  mischiev 
ously  ;  "  and  I  wish  I  knew  who  the  authoress  was.  I  might 
be  in  danger  of  falling  in  love,  for  my  boyish  loves  were  all 
authoresses.'' 

Mr.  Stuart  takes  Frank's  arm  and  walks  into  the  other 
room.  lie  says,  as  they  stand  before  the  portrait  Dawn, 
"  There,  Frank  ;  there  is  a  pretty  good  picture  of  the  un 
known  authoress ;  and  now  I  have  introduced  you,"  he 
added,  laughing,  "  I  will  leave  you  to  cultivate  her  ac 
quaintance." 

A  surprise  never  looks  picturesque  on  paper,  so  we'll  not 
repeat  Frank's  comments  and  questions  and  Nepenthe's  ex 
planations  and  answers.  We  will  leave  them  a  week,  till 
we  see  Frank  coining  in  one  day  with  a  budget  of  fresh 
newspapers.  The  morning,  evening,  daily  and  weekly  pa 
pers,  and  we'll  hear  what  the  critics  say. 

"  The  Sunday  Telegraph  says,"  said  Frank,  "  that  you 
have  written  a  very  good  book,  but  it  is  of  entirely  a  too  re 
ligious  a  cast — a  very  serious  fault,"  he  added.  "  The 
Mori/ing  Glory  ends  by  saying  that  it  is  a  charming  story, 
and  its  chief  charm  is  its  high  moral  tone,  its  elevated  re 
ligious  sentiment.  You  know  how  disturbed  yoa  were,  Ne 
penthe,  on  account  of  that  remark  of  Miss  Charity  Gouge's 
about  the  book  s  being  so  full  of  '  chopped  sentences.'  Here 
is  a  review,  in  the  Metropolitan  Day  Book,  which  is  a  very 
good  offset  to  that.  The  critic  says  the  style  is  simple  and 
elegant,  and  its  language  poetic  and  eloquent." 

"  Mrs.  John  Pridefit  remarked,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  that 
the  book  was  full  of  egregious  grammatical  blunders.  She 
evidently  gave  me  credit  for  all  the  inaccuracies  I  put  in  the 
mouths  of  my  characters,  and  in  ordinary  conversation  very 
few  persons  speak  with  perfect  grammatical  accuracy." 

"  Don't  break  your  heart,  Nepenthe  ;  but  the  reviewer  in 
the  Daily  Wonder  says  your  book  is  '  loosely  put  together,' 
— but  here  is  the  Evening  Guest,  and  the  critic  remarks 
that  '  the  style  is  simple,  concise,  and  natural.'  The  sharp 
est  review  you  have  had  is  from  the  Weekly  Raven.  The 
editor  says — '  not  knowing  what  else  to  do  with  your  hero 
ine,  you  set  her  school-teaching  for  her  living,  and  this  is  a 
stale  resource  for  feeble  authors.'  I  won't  read  all  the 


NEPENTHE.  317 

sharp  things  he  says,  but  he  evidently  thinks  it  a  great 
fault ;  but  they  say  the  editor  is  an  Englishman,  and  down 
on  all  American  books.  But  here  is  the  American  Violet, 
one  of  the  ablest  magazines  in  the  country,  and  its  reviewer 
says  that  this  very  school-keeping  heroine  is  the  chief  charm 
of  the  book — so  there's  a  heart's  ease  for  you,  Nepenthe. 
There's  also  a  very  able  review  of  a  similar  character  in  the 
Independent  Truth  Teller,  and  another  very  just  criticism 
in  the  American  Evangelist." 

"  What  is  there  in  real  life,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  for  an  edu 
cated  poor  young  person  to  do  for  a  living  but  teach  ?  It  is 
common  in  stories,  but  not  more  common  than  in  life  ;  but  I 
wonder  why  I  have  had  no  reviews  from  the  Morning  Dew 
Drop  and  Evening  Primrose.  The  editors  are  my  personal 
friends." 

"  Oh  !  they  have  a  grudge  against  your  publishers,"  said 
Carleyn  ;  ''  and  they'll  never  notice  any  of  their  books.  The 
editor  of  thtf  Laughing  Budget  remarks  that  '  it  is  a  bad  taste 
to  close  with  a  death-scene,'  but  the  Boston  Puritan  Evangel 
says  '  the  last  chapter  is  a  specimen  of  sublime  and  beauti 
ful  pathos  throughout.'  You  see,  Nepenthe,"  said  Frank, 
"  you've  enough  of  all  kinds  of  reviews  to  keep  your  spirit 
ual  equilibrium." 

"  No  one,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  can  accuse  me  of  writing  a 
novel.  I  haven't  written  half  the  romance  in  my  head.  Of 
course  it's  a  love  story,  for  wouldn't  anybody's  life  be  tame 
and  dull  enough  without  a  love  story  in  it  ? 

"  But  Miss  Prudence  Potter  said  she  shouldn't  have 
thought  that  Mrs.  Carleyn,  a  professor,  would  have  written 
so  much  of  a  novel,"  said  Frank,  "  and  the  critic  of  the 
Courier,  of  whose  keen  eyes  you  were  so  afraid,  says  '  it  is  a 
charming  domestic  novel,'  but  Miss  Charity  Gouge  says  she 
never'll  read  it  through,  for  she  doesn't  like  women's  writ 
ings." 

"  I  am  glad,  Frank,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  that  my  happiness 
does  not  depend  upon  the  success  or  failure  of  my  book." 

Frank  reads  aloud  one  more  review  from  the  Christian 
Intelligencer.  It  is  beautifully  written,  and  in  deep  sym 
pathy  with  the  author.  The  writer  evidently  judges  dis 
criminatingly,  and  praises  real  beauties,  enters  into  the 
spirit  of  the  book,  and  Nepenthe  feels,  as  she  listens  till  the 
happy  tears  will  come,  that  she  would  like  to  grasp  the 


318  NEPENTHE. 

•writer's  hand,  and  thank  her  for  her  kind,  sweet,  sympathetic 
words. 

"  Here  is  my  olive  leaf  at  last,"  said  Nepenthe.  "  It  has 
fully  rewarded  me  for  opening  my  soul's  window  and  send 
ing  forth  the  bird  of  fancy  from  the  ark  of  my  heart." 

After  sitting  quietly  a  few  moments  thinking,  Nepenthe 
said,  "  Frank,  I  could  write  a  better  review  of  my  book  than 
anyone  else  can.  I  could  say  the  style  and  thought  were 
good.  The  chief  charm  of  the  book  is  not  in  its  plot,  which 
is  neither  intricate  nor  intense.  There  are  too  many  char 
acters  for  a  thrilling  book.  It  might  have  more  unity.  The 
best  plot  is  like  a  noble  river,  every  image,  flower,  star,  or 
fancy  should  be  tributary  to  it,  like  the  flowers  along  its 
borders,  all  adorning  its  bank  or  mirrored  in  its  crystal 
waters  ;  but  I  am  so  delighted,  Frank,  to  think  I  have  a  re 
view  from  you,  and  you  had  no  idea  whose  book  it  was. 
Isn't  it  funny — a  man  reviewing  his  wife's  book  ?  and  yet, 
for  once,  a  husband's  opinion  was  impartially  given.  What 
would  I  have  done  if  you  had  said  anything  sharp  ?  It 
would  have  been  almost  like  the  first  cross  word.  I'm 
afraid  I  never  could  have  recovered  from  such  a  shock.  I 
feared  you  would  think  the  plot  meandered  and  zigzagged 
too  much,  and  I  do  care  what  you  think  more  than  I  do  for 
the  opinion  of  all  the  world  beside." 

"  There's  too  much  harmony  between  our  souls,"  said 
Frank,  "  for  me  to  find  any  great  fault  with  any  thought  or 
fancy  or  feeling  of  yours.  I  felt  a  strange,  peculiar  interest 
in  the  author  when  I  first  read  Dawn.  She  seemed  to  ex 
press  my  own  thoughts  better  than  I  could  myself,  and  that 
is  as  high  praise  as  I  can  give  any  writer." 

"  Frank,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  since  I  have  seen  this  book  in 
print,  I've  had  a  great  deal  better  book  come  in  my  head. 
It  is  all  plot,  passion  and  pathos.  I  can  see  the  plot  right 
through,  just  as  you  can  see  all  the  way  down  this  avenue  in 
the  evening,  with  its  long  rows  of  lamps  on  each  side.  So 
all  along  the  new  path  of  fancy,  it  seems  as  if  I  can  see  lit 
tle  lights  hung  on  both  sides  from  beginning  to  end,  and  my 
thoughts  delight  in  roaming  all  through  this  illuminated  plot. 
I  seem  to  meet  living  people,  and  hear  living  voices  talking 
to  me,  till  I  fall  in  love  with  my  own  hero  and  wake  up  very 
early  in  the  morning  to  hear  what  he  has  to  say  to  me." 


NEPENTHE.  319 

"  Is  it  a  religious  novel  ?"  said  Frank. 

"  I  hate  that  phrase — religious  novels,"  said  Nepenthe. 
"  They  generally  are  a  bottle  of  fiction's  deodorized  ben 
zine,  superior  to  any  other  article  in  market  for  removing 
moral  spots  and  spiritual  stains  of  every  kind  from  Fancy's 
gay,  grave  or  gossamer  robe  without  altering  the  fine  color 
or  texture,  and  sometimes  they  take  the  whole  color  out  of 
fiction,  so  you  can't  tell  what  color  it  is  or  was.  A  religious 
novel  is  often  only  another  name  for  the  tamest  kind  of 
trash — but  I  hope  nobody  will  call  Dawn  a  quiet  book,"  she 
added,  as  Bridget  came  in  just  then  with  a  paper,  having  in 
it  another  quite  lengthy  review,  "  for  when  '  all  is  quiet '  on 
thought's  Potomac,  no  victories  are  ever  gained  on  fiction's 
broad,  contested  field,  no  laurels  ever  won,  and  my  poor  lit 
tle  book  might  have  to  go  at  last  to  wait  at  some  dusty 
corner  of  Nassau  street,  and  with  faded,  threadbare  cover 
lie  outside  in  the  cold  in  Fame's  cheerless  Potter's  Field, 
among  those  long  rows  of  unwept,  unhonored  and  unsung 
volumes  over  whose  neglected  heads  you  read  in  dingy  let 
ters,  as  you  pass  along,  this  dismal  obituary  notice  : 

"  '  ANY  OF  THESE  BOOKS  CAN  BE  HAD  FOR  25  CENTS.' 

"  Frank,  if  my  Dawn  were  one  of  those  stately  thought 
castles,  from  whoso  ivied  windows  you  could  look  out  on 
fiction's  broad  field  and  see  a  solitary  horseman  ride  by,  or 
some  persecuted  woman  in  white  hunted  and  haunted  by 
villains  in  black  ;  if  I  had  made  some  dim,  shadowy  woods, 
where  veiled  ladies  hide  and  ghosts  hover  in  shrouds,  it 
might  be  very  popular — Mr.  Caushus  might,  perhaps,  sell 
three  hundred  thousand  copies." 

"  Yes,"  said  Frank  ;  "  and  you  might  have  had  some  high 
bred,  haughty,  heavenly  hero  emerge  from  those  shadowy 
woods,  hiding  under  his  calm  marble  face  boundless  oceans 
of  intensest  passion,  but  bursting  forth  into  wildest  cata 
racts  of  emotion  as  some  mysterious  stranger  crosses  his 
path,  holding  in  his  coat  pocket  the  dreadful  secret  and 
priceless  safeguard  of  your  hero's  whole  past  life.  You 
should  have  gifted  this  mighty,  matchless,  murderous  man 
with  tongue  of  ice  and  heart  of  fire,  as  his  bloody  deeds  half 
frighten  one's  conscience  to  death,  wnile  his  celestial,  im 
maculate  motives  win  the  ceaseless  admiration  of  the  most 
spotless  maiden's  pious,  profoundest  soul." 


320  NEPENTHE. 

"  I  have  no  trap-door  in  my  garret,  no  dungeon  in  my 
cellar,"  said  Nepenthe,  "  nor  hare  I  frescoed  on  the  walls 
within  any  faithful  copies  or  skilful  reproductions  of  the 
great  masters  of  fiction — but  I  have  led  my  readers  along  the 
winding  river  of  mortal  life,  and  I  hope  they  may  find  some 
little  thought  flower  growing  on  its  banks  to  lay  away  and 
keep  in  their  hearts  forever. 

"  I  finished  Hannah  Thurston  when  you  was  out  to-day, 
Frank.  The  book  so  bewitched  me  I  couldn't  leave  it  off 
until  I  had  finished  it.  I  don't  believe  one  man  in  ten 
thousand  could  have  so  put  off  the  shoes  of  conventionality 
and  stolen  so  noiselessly  into  the  inmost  holy  of  a  woman's 
heart,  and  given  us  those  inimitable  stereoscoptic  views  as 
Bayard  Taylor  has  done.  For  a  new  traveller  in  the  realm 
of  fiction,  he  has  made  marvellous  progress.  You'd  think 
he  had  lived  and  breathed  there  always. 

"  The  hero  Woodbury  is  just  such  an  ideal  real  man  as 
lives  in  many  a  woman's  soul,  but  which  few  authors  ever 
sketch.  I  almost  wonder  a  man  could  so  faithfully,  grace 
fully  and  symmetrically  portray  such  a  real  live  hero.  I 
wouldn't  blame  all  the  girls  for  falling  in  love  and  marrying 
such  a  man  as  Woodbury,  if  they  could  find  him.  Then  the 
bo?k  is  so  fragrant  all  through  with  a  woody  perfume,  you 
feel  as  if  you  were  walking  the — 

"  '  Secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove.' 

"  The  author  has  the  good  sense  to  find  his  heroine  in  the 
country,  and  keep  her  there.  You  almost  breathe  the  odor  of 
the  new  mown  hay  as  you  read,  and  you  can  see  the  wild 
flowers  on  Hannah's  table.  The  author  has  studied  nature 
reverently  and  honestly,  and  she  has  given  him  her  most  il 
lustrious  diploma  in  the  university  of  fame." 


NEPENTHE.  321 


CHAPTER    XLIY. 

COMPATIBILITY. 

"  So  'tis  with  us  when  fond  hopes  cherished  long, 
Upheld  through  storms  of  contradiction  strong  ; 
To  ripe  fulfilment  suddenly  are  grown, 
And  gates  of  Paradise  are  open  thrown." — GOETHE. 

"  ONE  thing  is  certain,"  said  Kate  Howard  ;  "Frank  Car- 
leyn  and  his  wife  will  never  separate  for  want  of  compati 
bility.  Miss  Prudence  says  the  first  question  a  girl  should 
ask  now-a-days  of  the  man  who  makes  her  an  offer  is,  '  Have 
you  got  compatibility  ?'  A  great  many  matches  are  not 
made  in  Heaven.  Mr.  Vole  says  many  of  them  are  lucifer 
matches,  made  by  the  prince  of  the  fallen  angels." 

"  As  Miss  Potter  says,  we  do  hear  a  great  deal  about  this 
compatibility.  It  really  seems  to  be  an  acknowledged 
ground  for  separation.  If  our  grandmothers  who  had  unrea 
sonable  husbands,  and  our  grandfathers  who  had  vixenish 
wives,  had  only  thought  of  this  before,  how  much  trouble 
they  would  have  saved  themselves.  I  don't  believe  I  shall 
ever  marry — so  few  of  the  gentlemen  I  know  have  this  pre 
cious  compatibility,  and  I  would  as  soon  try  to  domesticate 
myself  in  a  snow-bank  for  life  as  with  a  man  without  it." 

Kate  has  been  reading  "  Prue  and  I  "  over  again. — 
She's  so  delighted  with  it ;  she  says  it  is  full  of  compati 
bility.  She  says  she  has  a  husband  in  Spain,  and  so  long  as 
he  and  she  live  so  happily  together,  she  is  most  afraid  to 
think  of  any  other  husband.  Her  husband  in  Spain  has 
such  kind,  urbane  manners.  He  likes  everything  she  likes, 
and  he  has  none  of  those  queer  little  fidgetty  ways  they  say 
husbands  do  have — yet  if  she  could  find  such  a  man  as 
Prue's  husband  was,  she'd  marry  him  to-morrow,  even  if  he 
were  an  old  book-keeper  in  a  white  cravat,  and  she'd  be 
willing  to  have  him  for  the  autocrat  of  her  breakfast-table  as 
long  as  she  lived. 

"  Did  you  see  the  bride  in  church  on  Sunday  ?"  asked 

14* 


322  NEPENTHE. 

Miss  Charity  Goftge,  coming  in  suddenly  and  interrupting 
Kate's  solitary  soliloquy,  as  she  seated"  herself  by  the  regis 
ter  to  warm  her  feet.  Charity  is  always  warming  her  feet. 
If  she  can  get  into  a  kitchen,  she  will  open  the  oven  door 
of  the  cooking  stove,  and  taking  off  both  shoes,  put  her 
feet  in  the  oven  and  toast  them,  as  she  says.  She  is 
warming  her  feet  the  year  round,  except  in  the  middle  of 
August,  and  I  sometimes  think  they  are  a  little  chilly  then. 
All  winter  she  wears  two  pair  of  stocking.*,  and  in  very 
severe  weather,  two  pair  of  shoes.  She  says  half  the  dis 
eases  are  caused  by  too  thinly  covering  the  feet.  Wherever 
she  goes,  visits,  or  calls,  her  first  object  seems  to  be  to 
•warm  her  feet. 

"  I  saw  the  bride,"  said  Kate,  "  but  I  was  so  taken  up 
with  watching  Dr.  Wendon,  I  forgot  to  see  what  she  had  on. 
I  never  saw  such  a  look  on  a  man's  face  before. 

"  Rev.  Henry  Selwyn  Stuart,  the  bride's  father,  preached 
a  beautiful  and  impressive  sermon  from  the  text,  '  All  things 
work  together  for  good.' 

"  You  know  it  was  Easter  Sunday,  and  the  day  of  the 
Hebrew  Passover.  It  was  just  one  year  ago  on  Easter  Sun 
day  morning  that  Dr.  Wendon  thought  he  saw  the  dawn 
once  more — so  it  was  truly  his  Passover,  for  blindness 
passed  away  from  the  door  of  his  spirit ;  it  was  his  Easter 
morning  too,  for  his  long-entombed  soul  had  its  resurrection 
to  light. 

"  As  he  looked  over  the  hymn  book  with  Mrs.  Carleyn, 
I  never  heard  a  sweeter  voice  as  he  sung  this  verse  of  that 
beautiful  hymn.  I  could  see  tears  in  his  eyes — I  am  sure 
there  were  tears  in  mine. 

"  Walk  in  the  light,  and  thou  shalt  own 

Thy  darkness  passed  away, 
Because  that  light  hath  on  thee  shone 
In  which  is  perfect  day." 

"  At  the  close  of  the  services  they  sang  again,  and  as  Dr. 
Wendon  stood  up  the  cloud  suddenly  broke  away,  the  sun 
light  streamed  in  through  the  window,  and  shone  on  his  ra 
diant  face.  I  could  hear  his  rich  manly  voice  in  tremulous 
tones  — 

"  Now  that  the  sun  is  gleaming  bright, 

Implore  we,  bending  low, 

That  He,  the  uncreated  light, 

May  guide  us  as  we  go." 


NEPENTHE.  323 

"  What  will  he  do  now  ?"  asked  Charity,  iu  her  practical 
way.  "  Will  he  make  his  home  with  his  former  protege, 
Mrs.  CarleyD  ?" 

"  He  is  going  next  week  on  a  mission  to  India,"  said 
Kate.  "  He  heard  a  sermon  a  year  ago  from  the  text — 
'  Come  over  and  help  us,'  and  he  says  that  like  a  succession 
of  alarum  bells,  breaking  ever  and  auon  on  his  ears,  have 
sounded  these  words,  'Behold,  I  come  quickly,'— he  goes 
to  wait  with  the  weary  night-watch  for  the  breaking  of  the 
eastern  sky  " 

Reader  !  you  and  I  have  some  dear  little  hungry  hope 
climbing  the  toilsoma  hills  of  our  longing  life  ;  may  it  find 
at  last  some  bright  Easter  morning  its  radiant  dawn  . 

If  you  have  patiently  followed  my  story  to  its  end,  how 
I  would  like  to  look  into  your  face  as  you  lay  the  book 
away  up  in  your  soul's  attic,  where  you  lay  away  all  stories 
read  long  ago.  Yet  much  as  I  peer  out  into  life's  darkness 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  you,  I  see  you  not,  only  in  that  weird 
dreamland  where  unseen  friends  nightly  gather,  and  I  fancy 
sing  me  to  sleep. 

Take  this  my  prayer,  that  if  soul-thirsty  and  weary,  you 
may  quaff  life's  purest  Nepenthe,  sweet  with  blessing  and 
fragrant  with  balm.  If  we  ever  meet  in  the  palace  called 
Beautiful,  above.  I  may  luok  over  your  shoulder,  and  read 
your  name  among  the  names  of  earth's  tired  wayfarers. 


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